


Avatar Rising: A Whisper of Wings

by leonidaslion



Series: Angelwings [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Angst, Dark, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-25
Updated: 2011-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-15 01:45:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wheels within wheels...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Gone. Sam was _gone_ and Dean hoped that the son of a bitch could feel his rage wherever the fuck he was. He concentrated on it nice and hard for the psychic bastard as he pulled out of Bobby’s in a spray of dirt and a squeal of tires. _He left_ , Dean thought as he swung onto I-90 W. _Bastard left._

Never mind that Dean had begged his brother to do just that a little over a week ago. Never mind that Dean had been thinking of leaving himself before Sam had shown up at Bobby’s. No, never mind any of that because Dean had a real nice burning anger going right now, and if he let that slip then his real feelings about the whole mess would come bubbling out. He managed to hold fast to it all day, with the radio blaring Metallica and the landscape blurring by, and then night was falling.

Normally, Dean would just load up on sugar and caffeine and keep driving, but if he was on the road when midnight hit tonight, then some statie would have to spend the graveyard shift scraping him off the pavement. So Dean pulled off the highway in Bumfuck, Nowhere, and got a cheap-ass motel room. Lay down on the stained mattress, and waited for midnight to hit, and tried to think about anything other than why Sam had left.

But now that he wasn’t moving anymore, he was too tired—too goddamned _hurt_ —to think of anything else. Bobby had offered him his brother’s reasons as soon as Dean woke up and realized that Sam wasn’t there: wasn’t anywhere with in a hundred mile radius. Bobby had gone on and on about Sam’s reasons, and it had all added up to a steaming pile of shit.

 _Hoped distance would weaken the link my ass,_ Dean thought now. He found himself actually hoping that midnight would just get here already. Anything to keep him from acknowledging the thought that had been buzzing in the back of his mind all day.

But of course, he never got anything he wanted, so there were still five minutes to go when Dean thought, _he left because he couldn’t take it_. All his defensive walls came crashing down and he rolled over on his side. Curled into a fetal position and shook. _He couldn’t take it_ , Dean thought again, and knew it was true.

It was one thing for Sam to know objectively about the people Dean had killed—about what he’d done to some of them first—but now that he’d actually _seen_ it, Sam was disgusted. Sam couldn’t stand to look at him. Sam was worried that he’d do it again.

 _‘Don’t you fucking dare do that again!’_ he had yelled, as if Dean wanted to. As if he’d be able to bring himself to do something so fucked up and cruel. Maybe Sam had seen something inside Dean to make him think that. Hell, he must have, right? Must have caught a glimpse of whatever Anzu and the demon saw when they looked at him.

Popular consensus these days was that Dean was a monster: that he couldn’t be trusted. Maybe they were right. Maybe _Sam_ was right.

Maybe Dean should just end it.

“Gee, what’s wrong, Dean-o?”

Dean tensed at the voice. Knew without looking that he was in that white room again. That the demon was wearing his father’s shape. He curled in tighter on himself, hugging his knees up to his chest. Goddamn it, goddamn it.

“Missing something?” the demon mocked, and Dean sensed it crouch down next to him. Close enough to attack.

Sobbing and swearing, Dean pushed himself up and around. Tried to punch the thing. Tried to hurt it, or at least get it to shut up for a minute. But his fist passed harmlessly through the air as the demon slid to one side in a blur. Carried off-balance by the momentum of the punch, Dean landed ungracefully against the yellow-eyed bastard, his shoulder pressed up against its chest.

The demon’s arms came up, pinning him in place. Holding him just this side of painfully tight. One of its hands stroked along Dean’s back in an eerie imitation of the way Dad had calmed him after nightmares when he was small. The demon was whispering in his ear, using Dad’s voice— _shhh, that’s all right, Dean-o; just let it all out_ —and it was so fucked up. Was so fucking _wrong_ , but God, it even _smelled_ like Dad, and Dean was just so goddamned tired, and hurt, and Sam was gone—Sam had _left_ him—and he didn’t—he couldn’t—how the hell was he supposed to—

Dean’s hands came up. He clutched at this false father like a lifeline. Pushed closer like he could crawl inside the demon and disappear.

Any moment now it was going to turn on him. It was going to laugh and cut him up inside, was going to hurt him again, except that it didn’t. It just kept murmuring low and soothing things. Kept holding him like it cared: like it really _was_ Dad, and not just pretending.

“Why, damn it?” Dean moaned, his face pressed against its chest. His hands opened and closed helplessly, fisting in the demon’s shirt. “Why the hell are you doing this?”

Now the demon did chuckle, but fondly, and it dropped a gentle kiss on his head. “Can’t have you breaking on me,” it answered. “Not yet, anyway.”

Of course. That made perfect sense. Couldn’t break the toy before you were done playing with it, could you? That wouldn’t be any fun at all.

 _I can’t take this._

“Sure you can,” the demon assured him.

Dean shook his head, tightening his grip on soft flannel.

“You have to. For Sammy, remember?”

His brother’s name ripped another sob from him. “No. He l-left—”

“Oh, but he does care, Dean. Sammy left because he’s trying to save you.”

It was lying. Dean knew the truth: knew Sam had left because of the things he’d seen in Dean’s head. Because of the things Dean had done.

“You’re right; he did leave because of the things in here.” It ran its hand through his hair. “But not the things you think.”

“W-what then?”

“This.”

And then the memories were ripping through him. Three years of torture condensed into the space of a few seconds shocked into his body. Paralyzed Dean so that he couldn’t even scream. He wanted to. God, he _tried_ , but all he could do was shudder and ride it out with his mouth hanging open like a landed fish.

Dean lay still in the demon’s arms when it was over, waiting for his body to realize that he wasn’t dead: that the pain hadn’t been real, but only a ghostly aftershock.

Oh. Oh God. Was that what Sammy had felt? Was that what he’d gone through last night in the car?

“He only caught some of it,” the demon answered his unspoken question. “Course, the next time you two meet, he’ll get the rest. Because you won’t be able to help thinking about it, will you, Dean? If nothing else, you’ll remember this little experience.” Its voice was amused.

“Sammy doesn’t have your threshold for pain: he’s never had to develop it. You think he’ll have a heart attack when it happens? You think he’ll just drop dead at your feet from the memory of everything that’s been done to that beautiful body of yours? Then Azrael could have the pleasure of having killed him twice.”

Dean marshaled his strength and shoved at the demon. It released him easily. Let him scramble away.

“Fuck you, you son of a bitch!” he spat. He wiped a hand across his eyes, trying to clear his vision. Trying to pull himself together again.

The demon smiled. “I could help you with that, Dean. I can help you control that little privacy problem.”

Dean laughed wildly. “Out of the goodness of your own heart, right?”

“Oh no. You’d have to do something for me first. And it’s such a small thing really.” And suddenly it was holding that damned collar in its hands. Dean’s breath caught. “I think you remember how this part goes.”

“What, family hour’s over?” Dean said hoarsely. Of course it was. The demon had accomplished what it wanted. Dean didn’t feel like he was going to splinter apart into a thousand pieces anymore. Back to business as usual.

Not again. Not now, while Dean’s chest still felt raw and bruised.

“Make your choice, Dean. The collar or the basement.”

He wet his lips. “I’ll take what’s behind door number three.”

“Good to see you have your sense of humor again,” the demon noted. It grinned as the collar in its hands disappeared. “Let’s see if we can’t find someone to tickle your funny bone for a few hours.”

Later, when he was chained down with a demon rummaging around inside his arm with stubby fingers, Dean wished that demons wouldn’t be so literal.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

After he left Bobby’s, Sam drove until dawn, when he pulled into Rock Springs – Sweetwater County Airport and booked a flight to Denver. From there he’d be able to find something going to Boston, which was where this Corey Trankard guy lived. Sam was already in the air when Dean woke up at seven o’clock. Five minutes later, his grip tightened on the seat and his head jerked back with a snap against the headrest.

The portly businesswoman sitting next to him gave him a concerned look. “Are you okay?” she asked.

Sam nodded, baring his teeth in what hoped looked reasonably like a smile, and said, “I’m a nervous flyer.” As a cover, it kind of sucked because this was one of the smoothest rides Sam had ever been on, without even a hint of turbulence, but he was too preoccupied to think of anything better. Was too busy trying not to drown in the waves of _abandoned/hurt/disgusted/empty/pissed_ that were washing into him through the link.

Sam's head cleared a little when Dean finally decided to be angry ten minutes later, but he could still feel the rest of it bubbling beneath the surface. And at the core was a rotten feeling of rejection and worthlessness and plain old despair that made Sam sick to his stomach.

But he was only getting feelings from Dean now, and not images or thoughts, which made him hopeful that he was doing the right thing. That putting some distance between them would weaken the link to the point that the yellow-eyed bastard wouldn’t be able to get at his brother. It was a small comfort that he clung to desperately.

When Sam landed in Denver, there were fifteen messages on his phone. Fourteen from Dean and one from Bobby. Sam deleted the messages without listening to any of them, and then pocketed his cell again, leaving it on vibrate.

If Dean needed his help—if he was in danger—then Sam would be able to sense it, but right now … right now he just needed a few days on his own. Needed a few days to digest all the pain and horror he’d just absorbed from his brother. A few days spent in Boston, getting information from Corey Trankard and testing out his own ‘distance makes the link grow weaker’ theory, weren’t going to make a huge difference in the long run.

Dean’s anger and depression were still hammering into Sam when he pulled up in front of Corey’s rundown brownstone in southern Cambridge, but his perception of the feelings was muted. It was something like looking at the world through a thick film of water. His own disappointment at finding the note stuck to the wall next to Corey’s buzzer easily drowned out his brother’s emotions.

 _Gone 2 Lowell on Emergency. Back 2morrow._

Sam stood on the front stoop for a few minutes, staring at the note and thinking that this might mean another night of pain for Dean. Meant that Sam wouldn’t be able to fix things until tomorrow at the earliest. And there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

Damn it all to hell.

Sam made good use of his free evening by going out and getting completely shit faced. He never dared to drink like this when he was with Dean: was too afraid of what he might say with his inhibitions lowered. Of what screwed up shit might slip out and accidentally hurt his brother. But Dean wasn’t here. Dean was at Bobby’s, or somewhere in that vicinity, and Sam just wanted to feel numb for a few hours.

He found a small pub near Fenway Park and grabbed a stool at one end of the bar, his shoulder pressed up against the wall and his back to a beer-spattered video game. He sat and drank and watched the neon clock above the bar slide over to one A.M. Wondered if, somewhere to the west, Dean was sinking back into the dream. If his brother was minutes away from being tortured. Or if he was free and safe instead.

For the first time since he’d grabbed Dean’s arm on Bobby’s porch, Sam couldn’t sense Dean being dragged down. Didn’t know if it was the beer or the distance: if his idea was working. Just in case it was the former, he ordered two shots of tequila and downed them in quick succession. Dropped his head down onto polished wood.

“You, my friend, are drunk,” the man to his left noted.

Sam snorted into the bar. Sticky. Ugh. He sat up and asked the bartender for a beer. If Dean were here and caught Sam mixing his alcohol like this, he’d never hear the end of it. Then again, if Dean were here, Sam wouldn’t be drinking at all.

“So what’s got you down?” his neighbor pressed. “Work? Girl?” He paused, and then added, “Boy?” in this infuriating, knowing tone.

Sam glanced at the nosy man as the bartender slammed the beer down on the bar. Squinted at him, trying to figure out why he looked familiar. Big guy, broad face. Red hair.

“Do I know you?” Sam slurred.

The man shrugged. “Don’t think we’ve ever met. Seriously, though; you look like you need to talk.”

“ ‘M fine.” Sam turned back to his beer, which suddenly smelled about as appetizing as a week-old corpse. Maybe he shouldn’t have had those last two shots. And the annoying jerk to his left still wasn’t shutting up.

“You get fired? Girlfriend dump you? Wife having an affair?”

 _Oh Christ, just go away,_ Sam thought. He steeled his stomach and took a sip of the beer. Yeah, he’d be making friends with the motel’s shitty toilet in the morning all right. It seemed like a valid price to pay for a few hours of oblivion, though.

“Brother busy being tortured?”

Sam considered his beer. Maybe he shouldn’t drink it. Maybe he should get some water inst—wait, what?

He looked over again and the man with the red hair was grinning at him, and his eyes were black pools of oil. Sam tried to scramble to his feet, reaching into his pocket for the holy water there, and the man—the demon—threw a restraining arm around his shoulders.

“Easy there, Sam,” it murmured. “I’m just here to talk. And you don’t want to make a scene, do you?” It cast a knowing look around the crowded bar.

Sam forced himself to settle. Even drunk he’d gotten the implied threat. Maybe Sam could take the demon out—ha, who was he kidding: right now he had the coordination of a brain-damaged rhinoceros—but it was sure as hell going to take some of these people with it. One o’clock in the morning on a Thursday night: shouldn’t they have somewhere else to be?

“What d’you want?” Sam demanded, and then shrugged at its arm. “Leggo.”

It ignored his attempts to dislodge it. “Just curious as to what you think you’re doing.”

Sam scoffed. “Like I’d tell you.”

“Oh, _that_.” The demon waved its free hand negligently. “No, I meant what you thought you were doing leaving Dean all alone and defenseless.”

Sam felt a wide smile split his lips. “It’s working, isn’t it?” he guessed. “That’s why you’re here. Yellow-eyed bastard can’t get to him, so it sent its lackey here to what, threaten me into going back? Too afraid to come itself?”

“Too busy. Taking care of Dean.” The demon leaned closer, and there was a hint of sulfur on its breath. “Cleaning up the mess you made.”

Sam’s heart thudded painfully in his chest. “No. You’re lying. It can’t get to him—it’s too far—”

“You think a little thing like distance matters?”

Oh, damn it. Sam felt his eyes filling with tears and squeezed them shut. He wasn’t going to cry in front of this son of a bitch. And suddenly he remembered where he’d seen the man before. This was one of the demons from San Francisco: the one that had tossed Dean out from a moving van. For a few seconds, Sam contemplated taking the thing out anyway, and fuck the collateral damage.

The demon’s eyes narrowed. “You really don’t want to do that, Sam. You’re in no condition to take me on.”

“You _hurt_ him—you—”

“I may have hurt him, Sam,” it hissed, “but you broke him. Now we have to waste time putting him back together.”

“What are you tal—”

“Take a look.” The demon squeezed the back of Sam’s neck, and it felt like its fingers were burrowing through skin and muscle and into bone. The bar fell away around Sam and then he was standing in a white room. Red door. Glass table with a collar on it.

The demon was crouched in the middle of the room, wearing John Winchester like an old suit, and it was crushing Dean in its arms. It was hurting Dean. Hurting him bad because Dean wasn’t just crying, he was sobbing. And then Sam watched his brother’s arms come up. Watched them wrap around the demon. Watched Dean push himself closer, huddling into the demon like it was Dad holding him and he was all of six years old.

The demon was murmuring things into Dean’s hair, was running a soothing hand down Dean’s back. Was … was _comforting_ him, and Dean just clutched at the demon’s shirt. Kept making those little-boy hurt sounds.

And then Sam was back in the bar. He was shaking all over with ice-cold spikes of horror running through him. He was going to be sick.

“You almost broke him,” the demon told Sam, and it sounded like it admired him for it.

“Why are you—what do you c-care w-whether—”

“We want him tamed, not broken. He’s no use to us that way.” It finally took its hand off him, leaning back a little. “If he’s got no use, then there’s no reason to keep him alive. You think about that, Sam. You think about that while you stay over here, hiding from him.”

It slid off the barstool and Sam let it leave. He sat where he was and cried into his beer. Cried in public like the pathetic drunk he was because he’d never felt this bad before. Not even when he was in Azrael’s basement in Lawrence, on the other side of that endless phone call.

He finally understood why Dean had put the gun in his mouth, and marveled that his brother had had the strength not to pull the trigger.


	2. Chapter 2

In the morning, Sam was wishing himself dead for a completely different reason, hunched over the toilet and puking until there was nothing left in him. Then he would drink some water and watch it come charging back up a few minutes later. When he was finally able to keep some of it down, he crawled back into the bedroom.

He lay on his back on the bed and remembered his chat with the demon in the bar. Remembered Dean, damaged to the point of shattering and locked in some twisted embrace with the demon that had stalked their family for the last thirty-one years. Dean turning to that fucker for comfort because Sam had left him.

Sam started crying again. He told himself that as soon as he could walk, he’d get his shit together and go to the airport. Get back to Dean as soon as he possibly could.

Two hours later, his head still hurt, but he’d downed about seven aspirin, so it wasn’t quite as difficult to function. He was in the middle of packing his bag when a thought occurred to him. Frowning, he stilled his hands and pursued it.

If Dean had been as broken and lost as he’d looked—as that demon in the bar had implied—then he would have put the collar on. He would have done anything just to make it all stop, and then the demons would have had what they wanted, right? Because that bullshit about Dean not being any use broken was just that: bullshit.

After all, the demon had told Sam as much. _‘Broken, bleeding, and kneeling at my feet.’_ Not ‘tamed’. Not ‘controlled’ or ‘obedient’. Broken. It _wanted_ Dean broken, but when it finally had him—had him ready and primed—it had backed off. Hadn’t wanted Dean to put the collar on.

What the fuck did that mean?

 _It's waiting,_ Sam answered himself immediately.

What’s it waiting for?

The answer to that was just as obvious. _For Dean to do something._

Dean was right: the demon had played them. Was still playing them. It was moving them around like pawns on its own private chessboard, and Sam had the sinking feeling that, until yesterday, they had been doing exactly what the son of a bitch wanted. Sam coming out here to Boston had changed that. The only question was whether it was just Sam leaving Dean that was the problem, or if his destination had factored into it at all. And Sam didn’t have an answer to that.

 _Okay, so for argument’s sake, let’s take Boston out of the equation,_ he told himself. _If Ann hadn’t come up with Corey Trankard’s name, what would we have done?_

Sam knew what he would have wanted to do. He would have wanted to go to Ann’s. She was the one with the book they’d gotten the ritual out of, after all. And Dean would have come with him. Was that what the demon had wanted? For them to go to Ann’s?

Sam massaged his forehead. God, that didn’t make any sense. Why the hell would it want Sam to take Dean there?

 _Do you have any other ideas, genius?_ And the answer to that was no, of course he didn’t. And something about this intuition felt … right. He didn’t know why, but every beat of his heart was telling him that he was on to something: that Ann figured into this somehow.

Sam grabbed his cell phone. He speed-dialed his brother, and then grimaced as it rang once before immediately ran over into Dean’s answering service. Stubborn idiot had turned his phone off for some reason.

Sam waited for the tone and then said, “Dean, it’s me. Listen, whatever you do, don’t go to Ann’s, okay? You were right: the demon’s been manipulating both of us. I think it wants you to go there for some reason, so just—just stay away from Oregon, okay? I’m in Boston: there’s a guy here who might be able to help. I’ll talk to him today and then I’ll be back at Bobby’s tomorrow. Okay? I’m coming back, Dean. And I—I’m sorry.”

Sam hesitated, and then mumbled, “Love you, man,” before hanging up. He left his phone on this time in case Dean wanted to call him back. Shoved it into his pocket where he could get to it quickly.

Five minutes later he was on his way to Cambridge, hoping that this hadn’t been a fool’s errand and praying that his message got through to Dean before his brother did something that they’d both regret.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Corey Trankard turned out to be a small, weasel-faced man with a neatly trimmed goatee. The dome of his forehead shone in the midday sunshine, surrounded by a fringe of grey hair that had receded into a monk’s tonsure. He peered up at Sam through glasses that looked about an inch thick, his mouth pursed in consideration. He was wearing a tweed suit and pink bunny slippers.

 _Huh_ , Sam thought absently. Whatever he’d expected from Ann’s contact, it wasn’t this. Maybe he had the wrong house?

But the man looked him up and down once, quickly, and then said, “Sam Winchester, right? Ann called few days ago. Said you were coming. Here, I made coffee. Thought you might need it.”

Sam took the mug that was shoved in his direction out of sheer self-defense. Glanced around the neighborhood to make sure that no one was staring at them and wondering who let the freaks out of the circus yet. Because the man’s head was only about a foot above Sam’s waist, and he figured that had to look pretty weird to anyone walking by.

“Are you going to spend all day staring at me with your mouth open, or are you going to come in?” Corey demanded.

Sam started and flushed in embarrassment. He _had_ been staring. It wasn’t like the man was deformed or anything: he was just … short. Sam forced himself to focus and stepped inside, then came to a halt a few feet from the front door. He had a feeling that his mouth was hanging open again.

Books lined the walls from ceiling to floor. Precarious piles tottered in close-packed rows in the more open spaces, which of course meant that they weren’t actually open at all. Sam was afraid to move in case he knocked something over and set off some kind of disastrous chain reaction.

“Lotta books,” he said faintly.

Corey shut the door and snapped the deadbolt closed. “I’m one of those pack rat types. Never throw anything away. Good thing books are the only things that ever seem to follow me home; don’t know how I’d move around in here otherwise.” He reached up and put a friendly hand on Sam’s elbow and tugged him further into the house. “Come on; I cleared a space off in the kitchen where we can sit and talk. Brought some of the stuff I thought might be useful in there too.”

Sam let Corey lead him into the kitchen and smothered a laugh when he saw that it was no different from the rest of the house. There was a narrow isle through the sea of books that led to the back door. Two other passages led off from that main route: one leading to the refrigerator and the coffee machine perched on top of it, and the other to the kitchen table, where a single chair and part of the kitchen counter were visible. And _this_ was what it looked like with a space cleared? Good God, how did the man eat?

He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until Corey said absently, “I get take out. Don’t like cooking; takes too much time. Drink your coffee, Mr. Winchester.”

Sam obeyed, expecting to get a mouthful of sludge, and was pleasantly surprised. “This is really good, thanks,” he said.

Corey waved a hand at him and picked his way over to the cleared area by the kitchen table. “That’s the hangover talking. That crap they sell at McDonalds’d taste good to you right now.” He jumped up so that he was sitting on the counter, his legs dangling a good distance off the floor.

Sam frowned and followed him. He was feeling pretty good by now: didn’t think the dilation of his pupils was all that noticeable. “How’d you know about that? That I, um, have a hangover.”

“Hmm? Oh, _speculum fati_.” Corey motioned that Sam should sit in the empty chair.

Lowering himself down into the seat, Sam translated, “Mirror of fate?” He took another sip of coffee as Corey nodded.

“Low-level ritual. Sort of like using a magic eight ball: you ever try one of those? Fun gizmos. Anyway, it’s not good for much—just catches little things, you know? I got that you’d hit the bottles a little too hard and be in need of a solid cuppa Joe. And your favorite color is green, but you always say orange when someone asks you. Stupid stuff like that. Why is that anyway?”

Sam laughed a little at the onslaught and Corey rubbed ruefully at his bald crown. “Sorry,” the little man apologized. “I don’t get a lot of company.”

“No, that’s fine, really.” Sam smiled. “I, uh, I don’t know about the orange thing. I used to say it to piss my brother off—Dean always said orange was too fugly to be a real color—and then, I dunno, I guess I just got used to saying it. You’re right, though. I'm a big fan of green.”

“ _Speculum fati_ ’s never wrong. It’s cryptic and mostly useless, like most minor rituals are, but it’s never wrong. More coffee?” he asked as Sam tipped back the rest of his cup and then set it, empty, on top of a nearby pile of books.

Sam shook his head. “No, that was plenty, thanks. I was actually wondering if we could get down to business? No offense, but I’m in kind of a hurry.”

“None taken. Ann explained the situation.” Corey whistled to himself as he leaned over and picked a book off the top of the stack piled in the sink. He leafed through it for a moment and then read, “Is your name insert name of subject here, do you reject satan and all his minions, do you reject the agents of god here on earth—” He glanced up at Sam. “Sound familiar?”

“That’s the ritual, yeah,” Sam agreed faintly. He felt a little dizzy, that place inside him that was connected to Dean resonating strangely at Corey’s monotone recitation.

Corey buried his nose in the book again, traced down the page with one finger, and then continued, “… swear to protect and defend you, by breath, blood and bone, until death take me and earth cover my eyes.” He shut the book with a snap. “Okay, where you ran into problems here is that ‘breath’ bit. Lots of ancient cultures associated breath with life and the soul. So I’d say that right there’s the reason for the binding.”

“Can you fix it?” Sam asked anxiously, edging forward on the chair. “I mean, do you know how to undo the ritual and sever the link?”

Corey shook his head. “Can’t.”

Sam’s chest tightened painfully. “What do you mean, ‘can’t’?” he demanded.

“It’s a strong binding, and Ann told me you two were close before it happened. Now, as far as I can see, there’s two ways of breaking it: either one of you dies or some kind of higher power steps in.”

The first option wasn’t really an option at all, but the second sounded promising. “What kind of higher power?”

“Something big. Seraphim could pull it off, maybe. One of the Great Kings of Hell. Lucifer could do it. Or God, if you could get Him to pay attention long enough.”

“Fuck.” Sam wasn’t about to bargain with anything that powerful from Hell, and he didn’t have the first clue how to get Heaven’s attention. “What about blocking the link?” he tried. “Can we stop the demon from getting to him that way?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Let me check some of my sources.” Corey jumped down from the counter and wandered away through the books, occasionally pausing to look through a table of contents, or check the label on the spine.

Sam waited quietly for a few minutes before shifting in the chair and pulling out his phone. He dialed Dean and then frowned when it went straight to voice mail again. Worried, Sam slipped his eyes shut and focused on his brother. He found his brother nervous and upset, but not panicked. Not in pain.

 _Then why the hell do I feel like something’s wrong?_

On impulse, he dialed Ann. He probably should have done it before: warned her not to let Dean onto the property. Everything was just happening so damned fast, and his brain was having trouble keeping up.

Sam sat there in Corey’s kitchen with the cell phone pressed against his ear while the line on the other end rang. Finally, he hung up, his stomach turning over uneasily.

Even if Ann wasn’t home herself, there were almost ten people who lived with her on the estate. So either everyone had gone out at the same time for some reason, or the phone lines were down.

Sam sucked in a breath. Dean hadn’t turned his phone off; something had turned it off for him. Had cut the lines at Ann’s, too. Something that didn’t want Sam to contact his brother and stop him from going to Ann’s.

Corey wandered back into the kitchen, almost invisible behind the stack of books he was carrying. “There might be something in—”

Sam jumped up and took the books from the man. Dropped them unceremoniously on top of the chair. “Forget it. My brother’s in trouble: Ann too, I think. I need to get through to one or both of them right now, and their phones are out. Got anything that might help?”

Corey adjusted his glasses, eyes enormous behind those thick lenses. “Why don’t you use that link?”

Sam tightened his jaw and shook his head. “It’s not as strong from me to Dean: maybe the demon’s doing something so he can’t hear me, I don’t know. But I don’t think—no, I’m _positive_ that I can’t reach Dean from here. We have to be pretty close for him to hear me, and even then he doesn’t get much.”

Corey wrinkled his nose. “Hmm. You know, I think I just saw a book on—”

Whatever he had been about to say was cut off by the back door slamming open. Corey jumped, letting out a small, startled cry. Sam didn’t flinch. He wasn’t really surprised to see the red-haired demon standing in the doorway when he looked over. The demon’s face was blank, but its eyes were black hurricanes, and its power shuddered through the room, brushing against Sam’s skin like smoke.

 _‘Oh, that’_ , it had said last night, as though Sam’s attempts to save Dean were unimportant. And if Sam hadn’t been so drunk at the time, and so preoccupied this morning, he would have realized that the dismissal meant that the demons had known exactly why he was in Boston. And even if he hadn't figured _that_ out, he should at least have considered that they’d be watching him. That they’d be watching and making sure that Sam didn’t do anything to screw up the game plan.

And now Sam had fitted some of the puzzle together. He’d become dangerous. They weren’t going to let him warn Dean.

 _Oh fuck_ , Sam thought, and his hand was already dipping for the flask of holy water in his left pocket. Then the demon’s eyes flickered and he found himself being picked up and flung into the stacks of books behind him. Sam grunted at the impact, but the demon hadn’t thrown him hard, and he didn’t think he was injured.

He pushed himself up onto his elbows in time to see Corey’s legs unfreeze from their shock. He saw the little man turn to run. Saw the demon take three strides and catch him by the back of the neck. Sam scrambled to get to his feet, knowing that he couldn’t do anything before the demon snapped Corey’s neck but needing to try.

But the demon only lifted the man off his feet and snarled, “I’m going to rip the flesh from your bones, human.”

Corey let out a whimper and Sam saw his trousers darken as his bladder let go. One of his bunny slippers had fallen off and his bare foot was pathetically small. Then the red-haired demon was turning, was hauling Corey around and holding him out like an offering toward the back door.

Sam was still trying to find his footing on the books when the black fog swirled up the steps, sweeping in through the kitchen. Funneling into Corey’s gaping mouth.

Shit.

The red haired demon set Corey down on the floor. The little man looked down at his damp trousers and frowned distastefully. “I hate it when they do that,” he complained, and then turned a wide grin and yellow eyes in Sam’s direction. “Mmm, Sammy. We need to talk.”


	3. Chapter 3

Dean pulled up in front of the massive iron gates and put the Impala in park. Then sat staring straight ahead with his heart beating too quickly. It had been years since he’d been here last, but he could still tell the exact spot on the drive where he’d driven a knife into Elise Tallahause’s heart.

Dean wanted to turn the car around and go back to Bobby’s. Wanted to be anywhere but here. But the situation hadn’t changed, even if it didn’t hurt quite so much now that he understood what had happened. Sam was gone, and Dean didn’t know where the hell his brother was, and that was just unacceptable.

All Bobby had been able to tell him was that Sam had received a phone call from a friend by the name of Ann, and gone haring off after a contact she’d given him. Sam didn’t know many Anns and, based on the current circumstances, it hadn’t been too difficult to figure out who had given Sam his destination. Dean had her number—could have called and asked for the information he needed—but he had a feeling that Ann would be on Sam’s side in this. That the phone call would be a waste of time and only serve to warn her that he was coming.

Maybe his stomach had been tying itself into knots ever since Dean got back into the car this morning. And maybe that had more to do with the knowledge that he was actually going to have to look Ann in the eyes than with the fucked-up therapy session he’d had with the demon last night. Maybe the last thing he wanted to be doing right now was paying a visit on the woman whose mother he’d killed: the woman he’d fucking raped, no matter what Sam said.

But Dean knew that he would be more persuasive in person. He’d be able to get Ann to tell him where Sam was if they were face to face, and he’d see it if she tried to lie.

Of course, none of that made this any easier, and Dean was sweating when he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone. He’d told Bobby that he’d call and let him know as soon as he got to Ann’s, but when he flipped his cell open the display light didn’t turn on. Huh. Dean frowned at it and pressed the On button. When the screen stubbornly remained dead, he swore under his breath. Fucking thing had broken on him.

Maybe that asshole back at the gas station this morning was responsible. Guy had run into Dean hard enough to knock the breath out of him, after all. Hadn’t so much as glanced back when Dean cursed after him. People got colder and more self-absorbed every year, it seemed.

Dean tossed the useless phone into the back seat and inched the Impala forward until the front grille brushed the gate. Once he was inside, he could borrow Ann’s phone and let Bobby know he was all right. He rolled down his window and leaned out to press the buzzer button on the call box.

After a brief pause, a man’s voice, clear and undistorted, came through. “Can I help you, sir?”

Dean had to clear his throat before he could manage an answer. “Yeah. Can you tell Ms. Tallahause that Dean Winchester’s here to see her?”

“One moment, sir.”

For three minutes, Dean sat nervously tapping his fingers on the steering wheel and humming the opening riffs of Enter Sandman to keep himself from turning the car around and running before this went any further. Finally, though, he heard the hollow click that meant someone was on the other end of the intercom again.

“Dean?”

He’d been waiting for it—had come here for this—but at the sound of that voice, Dean’s entire body went abruptly, shockingly cold. Sense-memory swept through him and he didn't know whether to be horny or scared or guilty, and this was a really bad idea if he couldn’t even stand to hear her voice coming out of a call box. How the hell was he supposed to stand in the same room with her and meet her eyes when he knew what she looked like spread out underneath him? When he could practically hear those breathy little moans she'd made when he pounded into her?

 _Pathetic,_ he told himself. _Just suck it up, Winchester. If you want to see Sam again, you need to talk to her. Besides, it can’t possibly be worse than last night, can it?_ And that was a low blow because he’d promised himself he wasn’t going to think about it. Wasn’t going to think about the way the demon’s arms had felt around him. About the whispered words of comfort and the brush of lips on his forehead. Because if he let himself think about it, he was going to go nuts.

 _So don’t think about it, genius. Talk to Ann and get your ass back to Sam._

Brilliant idea. “Yeah, it’s me,” Dean said hoarsely. “Can I come in?”

There was a lengthy pause, and then Ann murmured, “Of course.” The gate buzzed open. “Just follow the drive around to the back. The garage will be on your—”

“Left,” Dean interrupted. “I remember.”

“Oh.” She coughed uncomfortably. “Um, of course you do. I—I’ll meet you in the back kitchen.”

Dean drove through the gates and up the drive, entering painlessly this time because there was no angelic stain on him to set off the wards. He drove through the grounds and around back, doing his best not to remember wandering this place with Azrael’s mark on him. Or how Ann had felt under his hands, the way she had arched up into him when he—

Dean pulled the car into an empty space in the garage and dropped his head down onto the steering wheel. _Get it together,_ he ordered himself. _Stop being such a goddamned pussy._

When he was a little more under control, Dean got out of the car and went up to the main house, entering through a small door that he thought led into the kitchen Ann had mentioned. He’d remembered correctly because the first thing he saw when he opened the door was Ann sitting at a long, wooden table. She was running her hands nervously across its surface, and when Dean edged inside she bolted up to her feet. But it didn’t look like she was packing this time, which was something.

“Dean. Hi.”

She looked like he remembered. Auburn hair. Delicate, almond-shaped face. Wide, brown eyes. She looked good. Had looked really fucking good with his handprints across the smooth skin of her hips. _Oh hell, don’t go there, you idiot._

“Ms. Tallahause,” Dean muttered. He closed the door behind him but didn’t go any closer. Didn’t want to frighten her. Didn’t want to know if she still smelled the same.

Ann’s eyes darted to one side and then back again. She offered him a faint smile and, voice filled with false levity, asked, “Where’s Sam?”

Oh good, an opening wide enough to drive a truck through. “He left,” Dean answered quickly. “I think he went to see that contact you gave him.” He took a step nearer and was encouraged when the movement didn’t make her flinch. “I was hoping that you could tell me where he went.”

“He didn’t tell you?” Ann’s eyebrows went up and surprise bled some of the tension out of her.

Dean shook his head and shoved his hands into his pockets. “He just left. I woke up yesterday morning and he was gone. I need to find him, Ms. Tallahause: it’s important.”

Ann bit her lip, and she really needed to stop doing that because it was bringing up all sorts of memories Dean didn’t want to be dealing with right now. “If he didn’t tell you, he must have had a good reason for doing so,” she said slowly.

“Please, I—” It was harder than he’d thought it would be, begging for her help. But Dean needed it—he needed it desperately—so he shoved the last tattered remnants of his pride away and forced himself to continue, “Please, I need to find him. I can’t do this alone, I—” It was like thrusting nails through his skin, but it was worth it because Ann’s eyes softened.

“If he went to go see my contact, then he’s in Boston. The man’s name is Corey Trankard and he lives in Cambridge. He’s an expert in old rituals, Dean. I really think he’d be able to help.”

Dean’s heart sunk. Boston. Sam was on the other side of the country: was practically on the moon. _Stop whining,_ he told himself sternly. _You’re just gonna have to fly, that’s all._

“I’d offer to let you use the phone and give him a call,” Ann added, “But the lines have been down all day.” Her face faltered and she coughed lightly. “Or, uh, you probably have a cell phone.”

Well, he’d _had_ a cell phone. Not that the asshole would have answered anyway. Of course, Dean still had to find a way to call Bobby: pay phone in the town, probably. It was funny how things worked out sometimes, because that gave him the perfect excuse to make a strategic retreat before things got any more uncomfortable.

“It broke,” Dean said, edging backwards. “But I really do have to make a phone call, so I’ll just go—”

Ann took a few steps after him. “Wait. Just for a few minutes.”

God, why wasn’t she just letting him slink off? “It’s a really important call: some information I need to pass along. Thanks for—”

“Fredericks can run down to the store and make the call for you. He’s reliable.”

His hand was on the doorknob now: he was almost home free. “Thanks, but—”

“Dean, just—I know this is awkward, but just stop for a second, okay? I think I might be able to help.”

Dean hesitated, the doorknob cool and comforting against his palm. “Help how?”

“I found something in the vault. My moth—we picked it up the same time we got the book with that ritual in it. I’ve been rereading the book and I think it’s like a shutter: to control the link, keep it clean of any external influence. I thought it might, you know, stop what’s—what’s been happening.”

“You mean it might stop the demon from torturing me every night,” Dean said flatly.

Ann winced, but nodded. “Yes.”

Dean didn’t have it in him anymore to get excited or hopeful. This probably wouldn’t work, just like everything else. Might make things worse, the way his luck had been going this century. But if he didn’t at least take a chance, Sam was going to ream him for it later when he found out.

Dean shrugged. “Okay.”

It only took a few minutes for them to hunt down Fredericks. The man looked familiar, and Dean figured he’d seen him around the last time he was here. He gave Fredericks Bobby’s number and told him what to say. Gave him a short phrase to let Bobby know that this was really a message from Dean, and that he was really okay: not under duress or anything. Then he followed Ann as she led him deeper into the house.

The vault was on the first floor and not in the basement, which was a small mercy. It was difficult enough just being around Ann without complicating things further. The way her hair hung down her back kept reminding Dean what it had felt like to twist his fingers in it. The uneasy, half-smile she wore made him think about what her lips had looked like wrapped around him. And the little glances she kept throwing at him, like she was afraid that he was going to jump her in the fucking hallway, weren’t really doing anything for Dean’s peace of mind either.

When the metal door finally came into view at the end of a corridor, Dean breathed a silent sigh of relief. He came to a stop three feet away from it and leaned against the wall while Ann stood in front of the vault. She gave him another of those funny, nervous looks, and Dean resisted the urge to bolt. He crossed his arms and dropped his head down so he didn’t have to see the fear in her eyes.

“You gonna open it or not?” he said finally, after a few nerve-wracking minutes had crawled by and he hadn’t sensed her move.

Ann cleared her throat. Dean heard her start fiddling with the combination in the middle of the door and chanced a glance up in time to see her pause. For several seconds she just stared at the vault, her hand resting on the dial, and then she dropped her head against the door and shut her eyes.

“You okay?” And yeah, Dean already knew the answer to that: knew that spending some quality alone time with the man who had raped her had to be about the farthest Ann could get from ‘okay’. But he couldn’t help asking anyway. It was like picking at a half-healed scab.

“Could you—” Ann’s breath shuddered out in a slow exhale and then she finished, “Could you stop doing that?”

Okay, not what he’d been expecting. Dean’s brow furrowed. “Doing what?”

Ann lifted her head and turned to him, and she didn’t look frightened or hurt. If Dean didn’t know better, he would have said she was _annoyed_ with him. “Don’t play stupid, Dean. And cut it out: I’m not—this isn’t the time for you to be distracting me.”

“I’m not doing anything!” Dean protested. His jumbled, confused emotions made the short jump from awkward dread to irritation. Neurotic, crazy bitch. If she didn’t want him around, Ann could have just let him leave before. It wasn’t like being here was a walk in the park for him either.

Ann glared at him. “Clamp down on it. I know you’re distracted by everything that’s happening, but you need to have better control that this.”

“Control, what—” Dean cut himself off as it hit him. Suddenly all those sidelong looks in the hallways were cast in a different light, and his chest felt about a million pounds lighter. He let out a bray of relieved laughter as all the tension run out of his body.

“What the hell is so funny?” Ann demanded, her hands balling into fists. “I mean it: I’m not in the mood for—”

“I’m cured,” Dean told her, grinning. “Siren song went away same time the tattoo did.”

Ann just stared at him for a moment, and then her face went bright red. “Oh. Um.”

And if Ann was attracted to him, then maybe Sam had been right all along. Maybe it hadn’t been rape after all. Testing the waters, he asked, “It was that good, huh?”

“Shut up,” Ann muttered, but even her ears were pink as she finished dialing the vault’s combination.

Well, hell. She _had_ wanted it. Dean felt slightly drunk from sheer relief. “No, really,” he continued, sidling forward. “I’m flattered. Always nice to know my efforts are being appreciated.”

Ann was pointedly ignoring him, the color high in her cheeks as she swung the vault door open and stepped inside.

“You know, if you wanted a repeat perfor—” Dean stepped across the vault’s threshold and pain exploded through his shoulders—through the wings that he didn’t have anymore. He dropped to the floor in an uncontrolled spasm of muscles, his throat locked up in shock.

Then Ann’s hands were underneath his armpits and she was hauling him back out into the hallway. The pain lacing through Dean’s shoulder blades cut off instantly, but his muscles still ached from that initial contraction. Felt like he’d pulled every muscle in his body, and there was a deep-seated ache where those damned wings used to be. He lay on the floor quietly and stared at the ceiling while his heart rate slowed.

Ann knelt beside him and pressed a hand to his forehead. “Are you okay?”

Dean’s eyes focused on her and it came to him that she had to be responsible. This was _her_ house, and that was _her_ fucking vault. She’d led him here on purpose, the bitch. She’d done something to him.

His anger pulsing fast and hot in time with his heartbeat, Dean shoved Ann aside and scrambled to his feet. “What the fuck was that?” he shouted.

Ann blinked up at him with wide eyes. “Dean, I—”

He yanked her to her feet and shoved her against the wall. Stepped up against her before she could do more than grunt in surprise and wrapped his hands around her upper arms. Shook her. “What the hell did you just do to me?”

Ann shoved at him and yelled back, “I didn’t do _anything_!”

“Then what the fuck was that, huh, what was—”

“The wards are still up around the vault!” she snapped.

Time stopped, and all of Dean’s blood rushed to his head. Rushed to surround a single, scarlet thought.

 _No._

Dean released her. Stumbled back, shaking his head. No, that wasn’t the reason. Couldn’t be. It was over, Azrael was dead, he was unmarked. But God, the pain had been the same. Had been the exact same thing he’d felt when Sam had dragged him past Ann’s front gate over four years ago.

“No,” he breathed. “It would’ve—out at the gate, it would have—”

“I had someone in to take down the wards around the main perimeter about a year ago, but the vault was too strong for her, so I was—was waiting for—for … Christ, Dean, I’m sorry.”

“Goddamn it. Godfuckingdamn it!” Dean shouted, turning and punching at the wall. He slammed his hand into the plaster until the wall was cracked and his knuckles were bleeding, leaving bloody smears with every impact. Ann was pulling at his shoulders, trying to get him to calm down, but she was distant: unimportant.

After an unknown length of time, a man appeared from somewhere and wrestled Dean down to the ground. Knelt on top of him and held him there while he shook and muttered, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” over and over again. And then, finally, Dean pressed his face in Ann’s red Oriental carpet and wept.

The wards. Ann’s angelic wards. Bobby had checked Dean over for any sign of demonic taint, but neither Dean nor Sam had even considered the other team. Because it was over. It should have been over. But the sullen ache that still hung underneath his shoulder blades didn’t lie.

Even after everything he’d been through, even though the tattoo was gone, that feathered son of a bitch was still inside him.


	4. Chapter 4

The red-haired demon kept Sam pinned against the kitchen wall while the yellow-eyed son of a bitch went to change. Sam spent the time struggling against the thing’s hold. It was like the cabin all over again. After a few minutes of watching him, the red-haired demon pulled a chair over in front of Sam, kicked Corey’s books aside to clear a space, and then straddled it backwards.

“He fought too,” it noted. “Didn’t do him any good either.”

“You son of a bitch,” Sam ground out. These things didn’t get to talk about Dean. They didn’t have the right.

“You should have seen it. Should have heard the sounds he made. Thing of beauty, really.”

The demon’s words stung, but less than they would have before Sam got a peek into his brother’s past. Because he was certain that the things he’d seen there were worse than what had happened to Dean in San Francisco. So Sam’s voice was level when he said, “We’re going to kill you all.”

“Oh yeah?” The demon rested its head on its arms, face tilted up to him. “How do you plan on managing that, exactly?”

Sam didn’t have an answer to that question yet, but he’d figure something out. He and Dean would find some kind of ritual or weapon, and they’d turn these things into black smears on the floor. The Colt couldn’t be the only thing that worked on these fucks, damn it!

“That’s better,” the yellow-eyed demon exhaled as it padded back into the room. It had showered and changed Corey’s tweed suit for a pair of baggy pajama bottoms and an oversized Red Sox t-shirt. It should have looked ridiculous, but the power bleeding out from it gave it a malevolent air. “You humans are disgusting sometimes.”

“What do you want?” Sam demanded.

“No need to worry, Sammy. I’m just here to talk.”

“I didn’t mean me with me,” he grated. “Why are you doing this to Dean? Why do you want him to go to Ann’s?”

The demon blinked in mock confusion. “Ann? Ann who?”

“You know who, you bastard.”

“Maybe I do,” it agreed. “Maybe you’re right and I want a little more from Dean before I close the deal. Then again, maybe your brother’s just too much fun to play with.”

The demon rested one hand lightly on the redheaded’s back and drew small circles across its shoulders. “He can’t stand it when I touch him here. Just one little caress and he falls to pieces. Bad memories, right Sammy?”

And yeah, thanks to his little mind meld with Dean back in South Dakota, Sam had a pretty good idea why Dean couldn’t stand to be touched there. Azrael had liked to trace its mark on Dean while it worked: while he recovered. He wasn’t quite as sensitive about his back as he was about his neck—where he’d been chained, where Azrael had held him to remind him of its ownership—but it was close. The thought of this thing deliberately provoking those memories to amuse itself was maddening.

“Take me instead,” Sam urged. “Whatever you want him to do, I’ll do it, okay? Just—just don’t hurt him anymore.”

The demon only smiled at Sam steadily and moved its hand up to trace across the redhead’s neck. “Course, throat’s better,” it mused. “All I have to do is curl my hand—just like this—and he makes the most beautiful noises. So sweet.”

Sam’s jaw clenched. “Goddamn it! Didn’t you hear me? I said I’ll do it!”

“Awful generous of you, Sammy, but I’m gonna have to pass.” The demon tilted its head and raked its eyes up and down his body. “You see, you’re missing that … special something … I’m looking for.”

Sam had been half-expecting it, but the confirmation that this was something particular about Dean made his chest heavy with despair. He couldn’t bargain his brother out of this because he couldn’t do whatever the demon wanted Dean for. Sam got that, he did, but it didn’t make any sense.

Dean wasn’t _ordinary_ , because that term was never going to apply to his brother, but he was … was just Dean. He was a good hunter, sure, but there were men out there who were better: stronger or faster, luckier or smarter. He didn’t have any special powers either. The only extraordinary thing that had ever happened to Dean was Azrael, and as soon as Sam thought it he pressed his eyes shut against a wave of helpless anger. Everything just kept coming back to that bastard, didn’t it?

“You’re starting to understand, I see,” the demon commented.

Sam forced his eyes back open and stared down at it. “He’s not going to do it,” he said desperately. “Whatever it is you’re waiting for, he won’t.”

“Really?” The demon leaned closer. “See, I think he will, Sammy. I think that after tonight he’ll do _exactly_ what I want. I have a surprise for him, you see. Arranged it special, just for Dean.” It grinned. “Course, he probably would have done it anyway, but I like to cover my bases, so to speak. And I gotta tell you, Sammy: first thing tomorrow morning, that brother of yours is gonna fall right in line. He won’t be able to help himself.”

Sam felt his confidence shrivel under that yellow gaze. He needed to get back to Dean, needed to stop his brother from doing whatever he was planning. If he could just get away from the demons, Sam could get on a plane. It was still early afternoon, which meant that he could get to Ann's and warn Dean in time. Could tell him that he had to be extra careful tonight. That he couldn’t let the demon push him into reacting instead of thinking because it had something ‘special’ planned.

The demon’s eyes narrowed. “You aren’t going anywhere, Sammy,” it said. “Not today, anyway. We’re all going to sit here together until it gets dark like one big, happy family, and then Foras is going to slit the throat of this pathetic sack of meat.”

 _No._ “I’m not going to let you do that.”

“Don’t worry, you won’t have to watch.” Then, as Sam’s breathing quickened, the demon added, “No, I’m not going to hurt you. You’re just going to go to sleep for a little while. Twelve hours should do the trick. Then you can ride to the rescue. You’ll be too late, of course.”

No, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t be too late because that would mean that the bastard had won, and Sam wasn’t letting it win. He could still fix this. _Would_ fix this.

“Ever the optimist,” the demon noted. A sly expression slid across its face. “I like you, boy: you’re stubborn. Good quality. I like you so much, I’m gonna let you in on the punch line.”

It gestured and the invisible force that had been pinning Sam to the wall dropped him to his knees. The weight of the demon’s power pressed in on all sides, holding him in a rigid, subservient position at its feet. It reached out and brushed its hand against the side of his face.

“I’ll show you the future. Dean’s future, and the world’s.”

Sam’s heart sped. “Why the hell would you tell me what you’re planning?” he demanded.

Its other hand came up and it was cradling Sam’s face now, thumbs brushing against his skin gently. Sam wanted to move his head away and couldn’t. Had to meet its gaze as those yellow eyes burned down into his skull.

“Like I said, Sammy: it doesn’t matter anymore. It’ll all be over before you reach him. Everything but the fine print, anyway.” Its grip on his face tightened suddenly and he winced. “Ready?” Its breath reeked of sulfur.

“You can’t have him,” Sam ground out.

It smiled. “Can’t I?”

Before Sam could answer, Corey’s kitchen fell away from around him and left him standing in the middle of a street. He was still in Boston: Copley Plaza, to be exact. Trinity Church, looming in front of him, was a dead give away. The world was dim, but he had the feeling that it was no later than mid-afternoon. When he glanced up, he saw that a covering of dark, rust-colored clouds had blocked out the sun.

The square was deserted.

Sam shivered, turning around. Looking for signs of life. He hadn’t been here often, but even at two a.m. he’d never seen it quite so ( _dead_ ) empty.

 _Where the hell is everyone?_

“Anyone here?” he called, and his skin broke out in goose bumps at the hollow echo that bounced back to him. Cities shouldn’t echo, damn it. It wasn’t natural.

In the aftermath of his shout, a faint murmuring brought Sam’s attention back to the church. He jogged toward the front door and, as he approached, that feeling of wrongness increased. The main doors had been chained together, and sheets of metal were nailed to the wood. Sam recognized some of the symbols painted onto the metal from his research at Ann’s: holy wards. The stained glass windows had all been treated similarly, and everything was strangely dull and flat in the shadowed world. The murmuring resolved into voices, and what words Sam could pick out sounded like pieces of prayers.

“Hello?” Sam called again, pressing his ear to the door. His only answer was a growling rumble that came from behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder. A line of tanks was rolling into the square and forming up in a semi-circle surrounding the church, guns pointed outward like a giant star with Trinity at its center. What the hell?

As Sam watched, stunned, one of the tank lids popped open and a man stuck his head out. He waved at Sam. “Get inside! They’re coming!”

“Who’s coming?” Sam yelled back. He took a step toward the tanks. “What’s happening? Where is every—” His words cut off instantly as someone’s hand dropped onto his shoulder. When he whirled around, Sam found himself staring at a portly man. Black, button down suit. White priest’s collar around his throat.

The man’s eyes were wide and frightened as they darted from Sam to the soldiers lining up in the square and then back again. “Thank God we’re not too late. Come on; the back door should still be open. They said they’d wait to close it until absolutely necessary.”

Sam, rapidly going from nervous to frightened, let the priest drag him around the side of the church. “What’s going on?” he asked as they ran. “Who’s coming?”

The priest threw him a disbelieving look. “Are you kidding?”

Sam opened his mouth to assure the man that he was completely serious, and then grunted as the priest, skidding to a halt, shoved him sideways. Sam stumbled into the church through a small, wooden door and immediately fetched up against a wall of people.

He felt the priest squeeze in behind him. Heard him say, “Close the door, quick!” and got his head around in time to see two men shoving the door closed. There was more of that warded metal stacked beside it and as soon as it was shut, they started hammering sheets of the metal over the wood. Sam’s skin crawled as he watched them work.

Then the priest was grabbing his arm and pulling him through the crowds. Sam caught scattered impressions of people as they passed. A young woman in a halter-top clutching a plastic cross between her hands. A businessman with wide eyes, sweat rolling off his skin as he muttered to himself. A mother with a baby on one hip and a small, tow-headed boy clinging to her legs. A pale teen dressed in leather and with a silver chain connecting his nose ring to the top of his ear.

“What’s going on?” Sam shouted.

“It’s the End of Times,” the priest called back. “And Hell’s army is on our doorstep!”

With a final push, they came out into the main nave. The crowds were even denser here, and Sam and the priest came to a standstill just in front of the lectern. The sound of chanting was almost deafening, and the scent of incense mixed with sweat made him gag.

There were angels hovering up by the ceiling.

Sam knew what they were because he’d seen Azrael in its true form. He recognized the slender, androgynous bodies. The too-long fingers tipped with talons. The alien, impossibly beautiful faces. The massive wings were also pretty much a dead give away. There were five of them, wings a pastel rainbow of dawn: bodies the deeper shades of twilight. Their breastplates and broadswords gleamed in the candlelight.

“Why aren’t the lights on?” Sam asked, because asking about the angels would mean admitting they were there, and despite the weird cloud cover and the wards, he wasn’t quite ready for that.

“Electricity went out four days ago.” The priest tugged at his collar, giving himself a little more breathing room. “You really don’t know what’s happening, do you?”

“No.”

The priest grimaced. “Right then. About six months ago, the world ended. In Kansas, of all places.” He gave a small, humorless laugh. “One week after that eclipse that scared the hell out of everyone. They came right up out of the ground—out of Hell. Army tried taking them out, but it went wrong. Bombs exploded early while they were still in transport. Missiles fell out of the air: hit our own people. And then, when we got close enough, our troops started turning on each other. Like they’d gone mad or something.”

“How much do they have?” Sam breathed.

The priest gave a wild laugh. “Everything except what’s between here and Kansas—damned things went west first. Western US, Mexico, Canada, Asia, Europe, Africa. Everything.”

“In _six months_?”

“Would’ve been faster than that if He hadn’t sent His messengers to fight.” The priest glanced up at the angels, a wondering expression in his eyes. The light in his face died as he returned his attention to Sam, and he shook his head. “But they’re losing. They can’t fight it.”

“Fight what?”

“The Apostate,” the priest breathed, and the people pressed in around them took up the word like a chant. It rippled outward, sending a fearful shudder through the crowd.

“They say where it walks, Hell follows.”

“I heard it can kill with a word.”

A hysterical laugh. “Worse: it can keep you alive. While they gut you.”

“They say it likes to watch.”

“Screw _watching_! Did you hear what it _did_ to those women in Greece? For _three days_?”

Outside, there was the sudden roar of the tanks’ guns firing and someone screamed. It was impossible to tell whether it had been a man’s voice or a woman’s, but the sound ignited a panic. People everywhere tried to stampede and found themselves held still by the sheer force of their numbers.

Sam felt their panic brush against him, but he wasn’t part of it. This wasn’t his time: wasn't his place. _It’s not real at all_ , he reminded himself. _Just a vision._ But it sure as hell _felt_ real, right down to the sweat beading on his skin. And he was frightened: he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” one of the angels intoned from above, and there was a soft shuffle as the crowd looked up with a single movement. The other angels took up the words, their voices a cool weight on Sam’s skin. The sound of the guns outside didn’t lessen, exactly, but it seemed to diminish in importance.

Then there was a sudden series of deafening explosions that shook the foundations of the church. Sam jumped, his heart thudding painfully in his chest, but no one else seemed to notice. The crowd was still and calm, focused on the angels in rapt attention.

Sam came to the horrible realization that these people hadn’t come here for salvation, but for ignorance. They had come here seeking the numb oblivion that the angels could give them. He was standing in a church with hundreds of people who believed they were already dead, or worse than.

In the silent aftermath of the explosions, Sam grabbed the priest’s arm and shook him. The man blinked over at him groggily. “Mmm? Oh, it’s you. Let them take you away; it’s easier that way. Better.” He started to turn his face back toward the ceiling.

Sam shook his arm again. “The year! What year is it?” He had to know when: if he knew when he could warn the hunters. They could stop this before it got started.

“Two thousand … fifteen.” Then he was gone again, enraptured, and Sam let him go.

2015\. One year from now. Or less, depending on what month it was. Fucking hell.

A gout of flame swept in from the foyer as the front of the church melted away. The fire passed over the initial rows of the crowd, so hot it left human-shaped piles of ash in its wake. The ash figures tumbled apart as the fire breathed in, receding to the foyer again. The building shifted, trying to compensate for the loss of one of its main walls, and the ceiling groaned dangerously.

Swinging their swords up into guard position, the angels dropped lower. One of them swept its blade in a cutting motion and the flames sucked in on themselves, disappearing. With the fire gone, Sam could see that the front portion of the nave had been melted into a twisted mockery of itself. A solitary figure stood in the center of the destruction, steam rising from his skin.

Dean.

He was naked from the waist up, chest and face splattered with blood. Smeared with ash. His hair was shaggy, like he’d forgotten to trim it for a few months. He was wearing the metal collar from Sam’s dream, and his eyes were molten orbs of solid gold.

Dean looked up at the waiting angels and smiled. “Seraphiel. I’ve been looking for you.”

One of the angels—skin blue like the ocean, wings the color of sea foam—dipped its head. “Apostate.”

Sam should have known—this was what the demon had sent him here for, wasn’t it?—but he still felt blindsided. His breath rushed out as his chest constricted painfully, and he felt lightheaded. That thing standing over there—the thing that had just burned at least two hundred people to ash—was not his brother. Except that it _was_ because no one else smiled like that: rough and ready to tumble, with a hint of mischief thrown in.

“Yield,” Dean ordered. “Kneel before me and Fall.”

Another angel answered, softly but emphatically, “We kneel only before the Throne.”

“That go for the rest of you feathered fucks?” And it didn’t just look like Dean—smile like him. Now it was _talking_ like him too, and it was too much. Sam let out a sickened, keening noise. No one showed any sign of having heard him.

“We are as one,” Seraphiel said.

Dean shrugged carelessly, and Sam thought he caught a hint of something shifting behind his brother: some kind of shadow. He was too far away to see clearly whether it was just a trick of the candlelight or something more sinister.

“Then burn.”

The angels drew their wings in and dove toward Dean, swords extended, and he just stood there watching them. Then there was a hollow roaring sound, and where the angels had been four fireballs exploded in midair. Only Seraphiel managed to complete its attack, and it wound up on it knees with Dean’s hand around its throat.

Dean held the angel still with one hand and wrapped his other around the handle of the sword protruding from the middle of his chest. The metal turned to dust at his touch, flaking away, and when Dean lowered his arm again, Sam saw that his brother’s skin was whole and unmarked.

“I do not yield,” Seraphiel said. “You may force me to my knees, but it is not the same.”

“I know.” Dean’s grin was cruel. “I just want another toy. Humans break so easily. Besides, I want to thank you properly.”

“I am sorry for the part I played in your destruction.” A tear slipped down from the angel’s eye and Dean traced the shining trail with one finger.

Then he leaned closer, lips brushing against Seraphiel’s forehead. “I’m not.”

Without the angels’ soothing chant, people were starting to come out of their stupor. Those nearest to the front noticed Dean standing there with Seraphiel kneeling at his feet and, screaming, immediately started trying to push back into the crowd. A ripple of pressure ran through the people around Sam, but there was nowhere for anyone to go.

Dean’s head came up. His eyes focused on the panicking people. Something like hunger passed over his face.

“Don’t move,” he murmured, and released Seraphiel’s throat. “I’ll be right back.”

The angel remained where it was, trembling, as Dean stepped forward through the ash of the people he’d killed. The air around him shimmered wetly as though he moved in a bubble of heat. Blood seeped up from the stone where he walked in red footprints. And now Sam saw that the shifting he'd glimpsed behind Dean earlier hadn’t been a trick of the light after all.

It had been wings. Broad, black wings that swirled with smoke and left tiny trails in the air. Dean unfurled them now, spreading them high behind him, and they weren’t black, not really. They were an absence of light: negative space. Looking at them was like looking into Hell.

“Yield and live.” Dean’s voice rang through the church, carrying back into passages and rooms where the waiting people couldn’t see him. Another ripple went through the crowd as those people realized what was happening, a tremulous current of sound. _The apostate. It’s here._

Next to Sam, the priest cleared his throat and then shouted in a high, wavering voice, “Better to die now than be slaves in Hell!”

There was a murmured assent from those around him, but the voices stilled as Dean’s eyes turned in their direction. Sam shivered as that golden gaze slid over him without recognition and settled on the priest. His brother's lips curved in a familiar smirk that sent waves of pain through his chest.

“Okay.”

A wall of flame rolled out from Dean. Rolled through the crowd. Rolled Sam into darkness with the reek of burning flesh in his mouth.

Sam was screaming in his mind as Corey’s kitchen came back. Was trying to scream out loud and failing to make any noise around the invisible vise locking his jaw shut.

At some point the sun had set, leaving the kitchen in shadows, but Sam could still make out the yellow-eyed demon sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of him. Its head was in its hands and it was watching him with a fascinated, gleeful expression. Foras was up on the counter, negligently tearing pages from one of Corey’s books and littering them around.

Sam saw the demons and didn’t see them at the same time. Dean still filled his vision: black wings, gold eyes. Azrael’s mark and the demon’s. United. Joined. Jesus Christ was that even _possible_?

“Welcome back, Sammy,” the demon greeted him cheerfully.

Sam managed a weak moan.

“Don’t think he enjoyed himself,” Foras noted without bothering to look up.

“Pretty impressive, though, wasn’t he?” the demon asked. “Do you have any idea how long that fucking war would take without him?”

“Centuries,” Foras said.

“At least,” the demon agreed.

Sam could feel tears running down his face. What he’d seen was starting to sink in, and it left him cornered, with no options left except for the unthinkable. But if the demon was telling the truth—if that glimpse of Armageddon even had a _chance_ of being accurate—then this thing was too important for Sam to keep being selfish. He had to stop it from happening.

And the only way to do that for sure was to kill Dean.

The demon leaned forward suddenly and licked a line up Sam's cheek, tracing his tears. “Mmm … One thing I’ll say for you humans: your misery tastes so damn good.”

“Like fucking champagne and caviar,” Foras added dispassionately.

Sam’s jaw finally unlocked and he grunted, “You goddamned son of a bitch.” _Damn you for making me do this._ Sam was going to kill it for this. Slowly. Painfully. And then he was going to join Dean.

The demon’s smile widened, but if it was listening in on his thoughts, it didn’t comment on them. “Don’t worry, Sammy,” it said instead. “You’re still valuable. Every army needs generals, after all. And I’m gonna need someone to hold your brother’s leash: keep him from killing too many on our side before the war’s done. I was gonna give the job to Foras, but it could be you, Sammy. It could be just like old times: you and Dean side by side. Fighting together, hunting together.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Sam spat.

The demon shrugged. “Offer’s open.”

“It’s almost midnight in Oregon,” Foras noted. It dropped the book and picked something up from the counter. The moonlight filtering in through the windows caught the edge of a serrated blade.

“Time to go to sleep, Sammy,” the yellow-eyed demon said. Foras came to stand behind it, pressing its knife against the yellow-eyed demon's throat. Against Corey's throat.

 _No!_ Sam thought, but before he had even opened his mouth to protest, he was under.

He dreamed of angels bursting into fireballs. Of liquid fire flowing through people like glowing water. He dreamed of gold eyes and black wings and a wide, daredevil smile.

He dreamed of his brother.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean and Ann had moved into one of her studies. Maybe the same one she had almost killed him in four years ago: there was really no way to tell. Dean thought humorlessly to himself that it probably would have been better for everyone concerned if Ann had pulled the trigger.

Hell, if Sam hadn’t threatened to hurt himself if Dean tried anything, Dean would have gone down to the Impala hours ago. Taken the sawed off shotgun out of the trunk and ended things. He was half-tempted to do it anyway. Sam’s eyes intruded, accusing, and he forced his thoughts onto a more positive path.

“We need to summon one of those feathered fucks.”

Ann was curled up in an oversized armchair with her feet tucked underneath her, watching Dean while he paced. At his declaration, she furrowed her brow and pursed her mouth.

“Did you hear me?” he pressed. “I said—”

“I heard you, Dean.”

“Well? You’ve gotta have something here. A spell or a ritual or … or something,” he finished lamely.

“Calling on a higher power of any kind is always risky,” Ann warned. “And this—whatever it is—isn’t hurting you, is it? It’s benign.”

“Benign.” Dean repeated the word sourly. He forced himself to stop pacing and stepped toward her. Dropped a hand on each arm of the chair and leaned closer.

“I don’t give a shit whether it’s hurting or not,” he growled. “I want the sick fucker out of me. I want it out right fucking _now_ , and those bastards owe me. Now. Do you have a summoning ritual?”

Ann’s eyes softened with something Dean wasn’t going to admit was pity. Not if it got him what he wanted. “I can find one, but it isn’t going to be easy. We’re going to need a name—”

“Seraphiel,” Dean grunted, moving back out of her space.

“And something it’s touched,” Ann continued. “Something with a connection to it.”

 _Ghostly brush of lips against his forehead. Unwelcome shivers of comfort and warmth running through him._

“Me. Son of a bitch kissed me.”

Ann looked startled. “That … yes, that could work.” She glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room and gave a slight shake of her head. “It’s late, but I can start looking tonight if you—Dean? What’s wrong?”

Dean stared at the clock and it was like the walls were closing in on him. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath. No, damn it. Not now. Not while he was still dealing with this Azrael shit.

But the clock ticked over into midnight anyway, and Dean never even felt his body hit the floor. He was standing in the white room, with the glass table so close he could reach out and touch the collar. The red door beyond it seemed brighter than usual.

“Need another hug?” the demon said cheerfully from directly behind him.

Dean scrambled sideways, away from both it and the table.

The demon—wearing his father’s face again, the fucker—chuckled as it watched him go. “I didn’t startle you, did I?” it asked.

Dean turned away without even bothering to swear at it and strode toward the red door. He couldn’t deal with its bullshit tonight. He closed his fingers around the handle and then jumped as the demon’s hand wrapped around his. Did his best to ignore the feel of the damned thing pressed up against his back and shoved at the door.

The demon tightened its grip on his hand, holding the door shut. “What’s wrong, Dean? Find out you’re not as free of Azzie as you thought you were?”

Damn it. He wasn’t talking about that. Wasn’t thinking about it. “Can we just get this over with?” he muttered. “I’ve got plans later.”

“So do I, Dean. Big plans.” Its breath smelled like someone else’s blood.

“What the hell are you doing fucking around with me, then?” Dean’s mouth was dry, and he knew that he wasn’t fooling anyone with the false bravado in his voice. Not the demon, not himself.

The yellow-eyed bastard rested its head on Dean’s shoulder and hummed into his neck. Dean could feel it smiling as it draped itself over him, leaning into him, letting him know it was there. Dean’s heart sped the way it always did, nerves screaming at him to get away: get clear. He locked his knees and stayed where he was. Moving would take him away from the door.

“Isn’t it obvious, Dean? I’m trying to start a war.”

Dean’s skin went suddenly cold. “What kind of war?” The words dragged themselves from his mouth unwillingly, but he had to know. He had to get all the information he could out of the bastard so that they had something to work with. You couldn’t duck a punch if you didn’t see it coming.

“Cities rotting,” it mused. “Streets littered with bodies. The oceans turning red with the blood of slaughtered millions. Angels falling from the sky in feathered fireballs. Can you see it? Can you even begin to imagine?”

“I think I’ve got a pretty good idea,” Dean said hoarsely.

“Mmm.” The demon bit into his neck, hard enough to hurt but not quite with enough force to break the skin, and Dean realized that the damned thing was getting off thinking about it. _Oh,_ hell _no_ , he thought, and jerked his head to the side while driving an elbow back into the thing’s gut. It snorted laughter and shifted back a little, giving him some space to breathe. Its hand tightened over his on the door handle.

“No, you don’t,” the demon rumbled languidly. “You don’t have the faintest idea of what’s coming. But you will.”

Its free hand came up to trace across Dean’s shoulders— _wings, wings, God it’s still in me_ —and Dean pushed forward against the door, breath edging out in a panicked hiss. He wrenched uselessly at the handle again.

“So eager to be back under the knife,” the demon noted. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were beginning to enjoy it.”

“Beats listening to you run your mouth off,” Dean snapped back.

“Don’t you want to … discuss things? Don’t you want to know about this?” It pressed its fingertips into the soft indentation between his shoulder blades and he felt an answering pulse beneath his skin. “Don’t you want it out of you, Dean?” It was practically purring at him.

Fuck yeah he wanted it out. “You can—can do that?” Dean wasn’t seriously thinking of taking it up on its implicit offer, really he wasn’t. He was just curious.

“Simple as slitting a throat.”

And wasn’t _that_ a pretty picture? _Demon here, you fucking idiot. You aren’t actually considering making a deal, are you?_ Dean grit his teeth together. Was about to abandon the whole line of questioning for good when the demon slid its hand around his neck. Scraped its thumb roughly over his Adam’s apple.

 _Azrael leaning over him, one hand pressed against his throat, its thumb stroking his sweat-soaked skin. The other hand wrapped around the handle of the sword that was pinning him to the floor. Azrael murmuring to him while it waited for his stomach to heal around the blade. And then, when his skin was smooth and closed around it, when the sword was part of him, Azrael was going to yank it free. Bring flesh and blood and bits of Dean’s insides with it._

The demon’s grip shifted, its fingers moving up to trace along Dean's jaw, and the memory released him. He sagged against the door. The sound of his heart pounded through his head, deafeningly loud.

“How?” he choked. “How do we get it out?”

The demon released him and took a step back. The way was free, the demon’s hand no longer holding his around the handle: no longer holding the door closed. But Dean didn’t move.

There was a metallic clanking sound, and then something hard and sinuous brushed against his back. The demon’s hand came into view, holding the collar. The thing was inches away from his neck, the chain lead was resting on his shoulder for fuck’s sake, and God, Dean wasn’t desperate enough for that. Not yet.

The demon’s laugh followed Dean as he pushed open the red door and tumbled through. He fell forward and landed in the demon’s arms.

“So that’s a no, then?” it said lightly as it righted him.

Dean shoved it away. Stood on his own in the copy of Azrael’s basement, panting and pissed and panicked. “I’ll tell you where you can put your fucking collar,” he spat.

“You’ve got quite a temper on you, Winchester.” It smirked. “Or maybe I just know all the right buttons to push.”

“Push all you want, you son of a bitch. You’re not getting me.”

“Big words from a man who was sobbing like a little girl last night.” It sneered at him. “Don’t worry, Dean. I won’t tell anyone.”

Dean dove at it, meaning to tackle it to the ground and see if he could make it bleed. See if he could punch that hateful smile off its face. He ran into some kind of invisible wall and fetched up short. The demon’s power oozed around him, holding him in place.

“You’re more mine all the time, you know,” the demon pointed out as it paced around him. “Every time you think about killing me: imagine new ways to make me suffer. Every time you think about just giving in and ending it all. Those are mine.”

“You can’t have anything if you’re dead,” Dean snarled, fighting to break free from the invisible restraints that the demon had wrapped him in. Just one punch, that’s all he was asking. He’d drive the thing’s fucking nose into its brain.

The demon stepped in front of him, its face so close to his that Dean had to close his eyes against the horrible heat. “You can’t save Sammy if _you_ are. I had a chat with him, you know. We talked and talked.”

Dean’s eyes flashed open in horror at that announcement, and the demon was grinning at him. “You’re lying.” But the words tasted sour in his mouth. He already knew it was telling the truth.

“Am I? He offered himself in your place. Again. Kind of touching, really.”

Dean’s shoulders tensed with the need to move: to lash out. “Don’t you fucking touch him, you—”

“Easy, Dean.” It patted his side like he was a nervous horse. “I didn’t hurt him. I told you: we talked. That’s all.”

“What about?” Dean demanded.

“My plans for you.” It chuckled. “He didn’t seem too happy with them.”

“There’s a shocker,” Dean said dryly. He didn’t bother asking if the demon wanted to share its plans with him. If it wanted to, it would tell him. If it didn’t, he was only going to amuse it by asking. “Look, if that’s all, I’d really like to get on with it. I’m a busy man: don’t have all night here.”

“Yeah, Dean, we do.”

Okay, it had a point. But Dean hadn’t lied earlier. Being tortured was preferable to talking with the yellow-eyed son of a bitch. Pain was simple. Pain was familiar. It was the damned demon and his barbs and all the … touching … that were the real problem here.

So Dean just swallowed and said, “Just put me in the fucking chains already and get on with it.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to make the smart decision? You don’t even know who I’ve got lined up for you tonight.”

Dean wanted to laugh. Like it mattered whose hand was on the knife handle. All these demonic bastards were the same. “I don’t give a shit. I’m not a torturer. I’m not gonna cut up your flunkies. Not for you.”

The demon shrugged. An exaggerated, mournful expression was twisted across its face, but its eyes sparkled with barely suppressed glee. “Suit yourself.”

Then Dean was up against the wall again, naked and spread wide: a canvas waiting to be marked up. To be painted red. The chains cut into his wrists and ankles with a cold burn like ice. His torturer for the night was in front of him, cradling a curved skinning knife.

Dean let out a broken sob and struggled against the chains. He was crying and swearing and shouting to the demon that he’d do it already. He’d put the fucking collar on if it just stopped this right now, Jesus Christ please, if it just let him the fuck up he’d do anything, whatever it wanted.

“Sorry, Dean,” the demon said, shaking its head regretfully. “Too late. Besides, I pulled a lot of favors to arrange this as a special surprise for you.” It brightened. “But hey, there’s always tomorrow, right?”

The knife hadn’t even touched Dean’s side yet and he was already screaming. He was hyperventilating, he was going to black out— _please God yes_ —before it even did anything to him. Little pleas kept slipping out between breaths. ‘Don’t’ and ‘please’ and ‘God no’ over and over again.

The demon laughed. “I guess you remember Azrael.”


	6. Chapter 6

Ann had cleared the second floor library out during the night, and when she led Dean inside the next morning there was only a wide, open space where massive desks and bookshelves had been. White chalk lines painted the entire floor with angelic script. Thick candles burned in large candelabras along the walls. A circle of lilies lay in the center of the floor, and at the center of the white disk, like a bloody tear, there was a single rose petal.

Dean was wearing a simple cotton robe Ann had given him, and he would have felt like an ass if he wasn’t still trying to pull himself together from the ( _don’t think about it don’t_ ) dream. From having Azrael’s hands on him again. From the demon’s whispered promise that, since Dean had enjoyed it so much, he’d make sure that Azrael would be back for an encore performance tomorrow.

And no. Not gonna happen. Either they fixed this today or Dean was putting the fucking collar on as soon as the demon gave him the chance.

“Are you sure about this?” Ann asked softly as they picked their way across the floor, careful not to smudge anything.

Dean nodded tightly and stepped into the center of the flower petals. He knelt, trying to slow his heart. This would fix things: it had to. Seraphiel would remove whatever Azrael had put in him and then it would take care of his demon problem. It was an angel: it could totally do shit like that. And, like he’d told Ann last night, the bastards owed him.

“You remember what you’re supposed to say?” Ann asked, offering him a small, silver knife.

Dean grimaced a little as he took it. “Yeah,” he said shortly, keeping his eyes on the floor.

Ann sighed. “Look, Dean, you’ve seen me naked. We had sex. I think you can stand to look me in the face when you talk to me.”

“I also killed your mother.” _Great, Winchester. Way to throw it out in the open like that for no fucking reason._ Except he’d been thinking about it all morning, hadn’t he? Between bouts of nausea and despair, he’d been thinking about it a lot.

Probably because Azrael hadn’t been able to shut up about how fucking perfect and good at killing he’d been. How it didn’t blame him for thrusting a knife into its heart because he was only acting according to his nature. Dean was a killer, had been born and bred to it. Azrael had just given him a little shove in the right direction.

Dean didn’t know what had hurt more: that son of a bitch cutting on him again, or that he believed what it said.

“Dean, I—I should have told you before now, but there didn’t seem to be a good time.” Ann was regarding him seriously, her face a little sad. “What I said to you the last time you were here was wrong. I was hurting, and I took it out on you.”

Dean cut his eyes away awkwardly. “Never mind,” he mumbled. “Let’s just do this and get it ov—”

“No. We have time. Besides, you have to listen to me right now or I won’t do the ritual.”

“Are you _blackmailing_ me?” he asked incredulously.

Ann smiled. “You think I don’t listen when Sam talks to me? It’s the only way you’re ever going to sit still long enough to hear it.”

Dean hunched in on himself, staring down at the knife in his hands. Feeling the weight of it and remembering different knives, different times.

“I mean it, Dean. Besides, if we want this to have a shot at working, I’m supposed to have a clear conscience, remember?”

She was right. Dean grit his teeth and shifted his weight a little. Wondered how long this was going to take. He glanced up again and she was watching him, her arms folded across her chest and her lips pursed.

“Fine,” he grunted.

“Okay then.” Ann squatted so that she could look him in the eyes. “I should never have said those things to you. It wasn’t—isn’t—your fault: it’s Azrael’s. That bastard didn’t give you a choice.”

 _Yeah, Ann, it did. I could have said no. I could have refused, but I’m a heartless bastard and the truth is I’d kill your mother a thousand times over if it meant keeping Sammy safe._ But all he said was, “Ok, sure. We done now?”

Ann snorted in exasperation. “Sam wasn’t kidding when he said you were stubborn, was he?”

Dean pressed his lips together and just looked at her, waiting. He knew the moment she realized he wasn’t ever going to listen to her because she sort of sagged a little and said, “Think about it, Dean. And try to forgive yourself, okay? For Sam’s sake if not for your own.”

“What does Sam have to do with it?” he asked, but she only shook her head and stood up, wincing when her knees popped.

“It doesn’t matter. Forget I said anything, okay? You ready?”

“I was ready before,” Dean pointed out.

Ann ran a hand through her hair nervously and took a deep breath. “All right, here goes nothing.” She edged forward until her feet just brushed the edge of the petal ring and held her hands out over his head. Her eyes slid shut and a tiny line of concentration appeared between her eyebrows as she recalled the words she’d spent last night memorizing.

Dean had been trying to ready himself for this, but panic still tore at the corners of his mind as the words rolled over him. Fucking Angelic. He hated that language.

Finally, Ann opened her eyes again and gave him a small nod. He waited until she had stepped carefully around to his right side before setting the silver knife against his palm. Pulled it down and across quickly, letting his blood spill out and stain the lilies.

“ _Dreshic Seraphiel_ ,” Dean grunted. Closing his cut hand into a fist, he ignored the sharp twinge of pain. “ _Dreshic freoweh vi Jehovah_.”

 _I summon Seraphiel. In the name of God, I summon him._

Light tore the air in front of Dean, flooding the room with the scent of the sun. It fell on his cut hand and knit his skin together, leaving only a faint red mark that faded as he watched. The light grew brighter until he had to turn his face away or be blinded, and then exploded in a supernova of brilliance.

A wave of love and comfort drenched him, and the emotions were so strong that the shock of it, like jumping into a frozen pond on a hot day, pulled a hurt cry from his lips. He pressed his eyes shut, shivering, and felt something shift in his shoulder blades. His stomach gave a sickening lurch at the familiar sensation.

“Dean Winchester and Ann Tallahause,” Seraphiel said. The sound of his voice chased away Dean’s disgust: his fear and anger. Left him empty and yearning for something he couldn’t put a name to. “I have come.”

Dean heard Ann drop to her knees next to him and was suddenly annoyed at his own position. Maybe he'd needed to kneel for the ritual, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to stay there. He wasn’t at Azrael’s beck and call anymore, to be forced to his knees with a gesture. Besides, his legs were starting to cramp up.

He pushed himself to his feet and looked directly into Seraphiel’s glowing silver eyes. Peace and joy wrapped around him and Dean scowled. It felt great, but it was a lie. They weren’t his emotions; they were just shadows being shoved into him by the angel.

“Stop it,” he snapped.

“I am only offering you comfort. You carry so much pain.”

Dean shifted his grip on the knife. “Sell it to someone who’s buying.” When the feelings only redoubled in intensity, he shivered and added, “I mean it, Seraphiel: stop it right now or we’re gonna find out if angels can bleed.”

Seraphiel’s face fell a little. “As you wish.”

Dean staggered as the weight of his own emotions dropped back into him, and immediately regretted his decision. Not enough to take it back, though.

“Why have you summoned me?” Seraphiel asked.

Dean rolled his shoulders. “You forgot to take something with you last time we met.”

“I did not.”

Fuck. Dean had been willing to give it the benefit of the doubt—angels weren’t perfect, right?—but it hadn’t been some kind of oversight. “You left that son of a bitch inside me deliberately?” he growled.

Seraphiel hesitated, looking a little uncertain in the face of Dean’s anger. “Not precisely.”

“‘Not precisely?’ What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“The power you carry comes only in part from Azrael,” Seraphiel said slowly. “His mark opened a path for what followed. It is the bedrock of—”

“I want it out, you hear me? Take it out right fucking now.”

“Removing it would have serious consequences. May I explain?” When Dean scowled at it, Seraphiel added, “When you have heard what I have to say, I will remove the power if you still wish me to do so.”

Dean could give a shit about consequences at this point, but he had the feeling that the angel was going to insist on explaining whether he wanted it to or not. Making a fuss was only going to delay everything, and Dean wanted Azrael out of him as soon as possible. So he grunted and said, “Talk fast.”

Seraphiel inclined its head in a nod. “You were never meant to be a major power in the war. Azrael’s interference altered your path—altered _you_ on a fundamental level. You have become, in essence, a crowned pawn.”

“A what?”

“You do not play chess.” With a gentle smile, Seraphiel asked, “You are familiar with cards? Poker?”

Dean shrugged. He wasn’t sure where the angel was going with this, but he was certain he wasn’t going to like it. “Sure.”

“And with the rule of deuces wild?” Seraphiel prodded.

“Yeah.” Dean frowned. “I don’t get what that has to do with anything, though.”

“Your interactions with Azrael have added the rule of deuces wild to the war,” Seraphiel explained slowly. “But you are the only deuce in play.”

“You see, Dean Winchester, your death was supposed to turn Samuel to the Adversary. But Azrael intervened, and you did not die. The fabric of reality was woven to accommodate the ripples caused by small changes, but your brother would have become a great power in Hell, and so the ripples caused by this particular change were larger: catastrophically large. Their point of convergence—you—has become an area of flux and unlimited potential. Do you understand?”

Yeah, Dean understood. This thing was telling him he should be dead. Again. Reapers must be getting pretty pissed with him by now.

“If I’m messing things up by being here, why don’t you just kill me?” he asked. “You can, right?”

“You misunderstand. The situation is what it is, and ending your life now would not alter that. But you have become a vessel capable of wielding a great deal of power, and as such the Lord God could not leave you unfilled. The Adversary would surely have taken advantage of your existence.”

“You wanna say that again: a little clearer this time? I’m still back at the part where I’m a ‘vessel’.” Although the stuff he’d understood hadn’t sounded all that promising.

“You carry a tiny fraction of divine power within you. I was able to bestow it upon you because of your bond with Azrael. I was forced to use some of his mark to anchor the power: to encapsulate it. As it is, there have been moments of overflow.”

Dean’s mouth turned down suspiciously. “Overflow?”

“You have been unconsciously borrowing from that power in order to help your soul heal. You used it to banish Anzu when it would have taken you and killed your friend.”

Well, fuck. Dean found himself rubbing his thumb across the knife handle for reassurance and made himself stop. “If I’m so powerful, then how come I’m still getting my ass kicked?” he demanded.

The angel shrugged with its wings: a strange, graceful movement. “As I said, the power is contained. It must be unlocked in order for you to have complete access.”

“And you’d do that, wouldn’t you? You want to.” Dean laughed sharply. “You never answered me when I asked why you didn’t just kill me. It’s because you still want me, isn’t it?” His lips pressed together in a thin, angry line. “You arrogant bastards. You still want me to fight in your fucking war.”

“It would be poor strategy to throw away a weapon of such strength,” Seraphiel admitted. Its face was compassionate, and Dean felt that warmth try to wrap around him again. Felt it start to drown his anger.

“You try that again and this conversation is over, you hear me?” he growled.

Seraphiel’s eyes dimmed and the warmth faded away.

“Okay, so you, what, put this divine whatsit inside me—without asking—and then what? Sat around and waited for me to find out about it? You did, didn’t you? You _knew_ that I’d contact you as soon as I figured out what was going on.”

“We needed to protect you from—”

“Bullshit. You just wanted another chance to try your sales pitch.” Dean’s free hand clenched into a fist and he resisted the urge to lunge across the petal ring. See if he could land a punch on that too-perfect face before it disappeared. “You assholes aren’t any different from the demons.”

Seraphiel’s wings drooped at his words. “We offer you a choice. They will not. The Adversary will not allow such a powerful weapon to go unused. If you would not be numbered among the Lord God’s chosen, then the Adversary will take you.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Are you _threatening_ me?”

“Merely stating a fact. We will not pressure you to join our ranks, but we would welcome your allegiance.”

Oh that was rich. They still wanted him to sign up for wings and a harp. “Dude, you don’t want me,” Dean said. “Trust me. I’m too—” What? Broken? Cold? Fucked up? Evil?

“No, not evil,” Seraphiel said quickly. The fucker was reading his mind: how unfair was that? But really, Dean was finding it difficult to care. His anger at the situation was rapidly fading: he was too worn out from last night to hold onto it for long.

“How the hell can you say that?” he whispered. “You know what I’ve done—what I am. I’ve killed, I—Christ, I wanted to break _your_ face in a minute ago.”

“Your heart is flawed, yes, but through no fault of your own.”

One of Seraphiel’s wings dipped forward and brushed against Dean’s cheek, sending a shudder of comfort through him. Dean didn’t have the strength left to protest. He turned his face into the touch. Wanted to cry at how good it felt to have that gentle wash of reassurance inside.

“Your path has been difficult,” Seraphiel murmured, “And yet you have such capacity for love. So much love for your father. For Samuel. For the blessed meek of the world. Let us ease your burden. Accept the Lord God’s gift.”

He wanted to say yes, wanted to bury himself in the redemption and solace the angel was offering. He was so tired. Just wanted it all to end. And that was the problem, wasn’t it? If he agreed to this, he’d have to spend the rest of eternity on the front lines of someone else’s war. Angels didn’t get to retire.

“I don’t want any part of this,” he tried, weakly.

“You no longer have a choice.” Seraphiel sounded like it genuinely regretted that fact. “You will be brought into the war one way or another: you are too powerful to remain neutral.”

Dean floundered for something to shore up his resistance—something to keep him from breaking down and assenting. Found it in the memory of a grubby hand fisted in his; in wide green eyes looking up at him with the utter faith that he would always be there.

“Sam,” he whispered. “I can’t—I’m not losing him.”

“That may not be your choice to make.”

“Goddamn it!” Dean shouted, shoving its wing away from his face. He wanted to leave the petal circle, wanted to storm out of the room and break something valuable. But doing that would disrupt the ritual and send Seraphiel back where it came from. Would leave Dean at the supposed mercy of the yellow-eyed demon—and of Azrael—when midnight rolled around again. He was trapped between a rock and a really fucking hard place.

The angel was giving him a reproachful look and Dean had to struggle to resist the sudden urge to apologize. Stupid angelic aura made him feel like he’d just kicked a puppy. But really, the feathery asshole didn’t deserve an apology. Not when it had just told him that he had no options. That he could submit to Seraphiel now, or he could tell it to take a hike and let the demon drag him down to Hell. And either way he lost Sam, which was unacceptable. No, damn it; there had to be a third option here that he wasn’t seeing.

Dean glanced down at Ann, who was still kneeling with a rapt expression on her face. “Little help?” he prodded. “Ann?” He bent a little, whistling and snapping his fingers at her.

Ann blinked at him slowly. “Wh-what? Dean? Dean, there’s an an—an ang—”

“Yeah, that was kinda the point, wasn’t it?” He frowned. His chances at coherent conversation weren’t looking so good here.

“I didn’t know it would be like this. I didn’t—it’s so beautiful …”

Sure, if you didn’t know what the damned things were capable of. But Dean knew from experience that those talons on the end of its fingers weren’t just for decoration. “Yeah, it’s real pretty,” he grunted, “But I could use a little help here.”

“What?” Ann was staring at the angel again. Seraphiel fanned its wings a little and her eyes widened.

“Stop distracting her,” Dean snapped at it. Then he looked back down at Ann and demanded, “Were you even listening?”

“It sounds like the ocean when it talks,” she said dreamily. “Sounds like rain falling on the roof, like the wind through the trees, like—”

Dean pressed the heel of his hand against the bridge of his nose and tuned her out. He needed advice and Ann was high. Figured.

Casting his eyes up to the ceiling, he grit his teeth in frustration. What he really wanted to do was talk this over with Sam, but that asshole was all the way over in Boston. And even if Dean had possessed a working phone, Sam had made it obvious two days ago that he wasn’t taking Dean’s calls. Which meant that he was on his own here.

 _Come on, Winchester: it shouldn’t be this hard. There has to be a way out of this. You just need to think of it._ But every line of reasoning he tried took him to the same conclusion, and Dean didn’t like it one bit. A leaden feeling of helplessness settled in his stomach. In the end, it seemed that there was no third option.

“I do this and the dreams stop, right?” he hedged, returning his gaze to the waiting angel.

“Yes,” Seraphiel agreed.

Dean took a deep breath. Held it for a moment and felt his body—still mortal, still human—settle around it. Pushed the breath out and wiped his mouth with a shaky hand.

“Fine,” he said roughly. “But I’m telling you, I’m gonna make a crappy angel.”

Seraphiel looked vaguely startled, which was an interesting expression to see on that unflappable face.

“I’m missing something,” Dean guessed because he was brilliant that way.

“To transform you into an angel would not fully utilize your potential. The power you hold comes directly from the Lord God Himself.” As Dean, nonplussed, continued to stare at Seraphiel, it added, “It is the highest of honors. He has not had avatar in close to two thousand years.”

“An avatar,” Dean repeated tonelessly.

“A physical manifestation of His Divine Grace. As I said, you hold a portion of His Divine Power.”

Dean blinked at Seraphiel for a moment and then it sank in. Holy shit. His head swam and he made a high-pitched, panicked sound. He couldn’t—not that kind of responsibility—that much power. He’d fuck it up. He’d do something wrong and the world would explode. He’d kill everyone. He’d—

“The Lord God has faith in you,” Seraphiel said gently. “We all have faith in you.”

“Don’t say shit like that!”

The angel only smiled at him. “Are you ready?”

No. He wasn’t in the same hemisphere as ready. He couldn’t be this thing they wanted him to be. He needed time. He needed—God, he needed Sam. He needed Sam to tell him this was okay.

“Dean.” Seraphiel’s wing trailed across his face again. “We would not keep you from Samuel. He is your kin, and your souls are united under highest bond.”

Dean licked his lips. “Yeah?” If he could still see Sam, then maybe … maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

“I am not allowed to lie.”

Oh right. Angel.

So he didn’t actually have to lose Sam. Not for good. If Dean did this, then he could still see his brother—still protect him. Maybe do a better job of it with the amount of power he’d have available.

He squared his shoulders and clenched his jaw as though bracing himself for a blow. “Okay, do it.”

Seraphiel laid its hands on either side of Dean’s face and drew him forward to the edge of the circle. “This will hurt for a moment as your body adjusts,” it warned.

Dean’s chest tightened in anticipation of more pain. He laughed nervously. “Of course it will.”

Then Seraphiel was leaning in, and what did it think it was doing, what was it—Oh. It was kissing him: a soft, gentle pressure against his lips. _Huh_ , Dean thought. _This isn’t so bad. Weird, but it doesn’t really hur—_

Lightning shot through him and he tried to scream, tried to pull away. Seraphiel held him in place: just stood there kissing him as though Dean’s skin wasn’t splitting apart at the seams, as though he wasn’t turning to ash from the inside out.

It went on for what felt like hours, and if Dean had known that Heaven would feel so much like Hell, then he never would have agreed to this. But then, finally, the pain was ebbing. It was flowing away, leaving him floating and a little giddy. It was … kinda like being drunk. Huh.

Seraphiel traced a cross on Dean’s forehead and then drew back. “Amen,” it breathed reverently.

And yeah. Hell _yeah_ , amen. Dean felt great. He felt fanfuckingtabulous. This was better than beer. Better than sex, even. This was … was … yeah, “heaven” pretty much summed it up.

“Stop!”

Dean turned, feeling as though he was moving underwater: as though the air had gelled and solidified around him. He’d been so lost in the euphoria of the power filling him that he hadn’t heard the door open. But that voice cut right through everything, same way it always had.

“Sammy,” Dean said, smiling widely. “It’s all good. Problem solved.”

But Sam was looking at Dean—at Dean and Seraphiel—with a horrified expression. “Dean, what did you do?”

“Fuh—Fuh—” Dean snapped his mouth shut. He’d been intending to say, _Fucked up that son of a bitch’s plans_ , but apparently there was a little problem with his mouth not working. His head was starting to clear as he adjusted to the warmth of the power within him, which meant he was able to put two and two together again. He did so and then glared over at Seraphiel.

“I can’t swear?” he demanded. “I can think it but I can’t say it? What the h-h-h—what kind of sense does that make?” And then, before the angel could answer, as something more important occurred to him, Dean swung back to his brother. “Wait, what are you even doing here? I thought you were in Boston.”

“He came to save you,” Ann said, and it was her voice but it wasn’t at the same time. Dean’s eyes widened as an invisible force picked Sam up and tossed him through the air.

“Sam!” he shouted as his brother slammed into the wall and hung there.

Before Dean had even finished processing what was going on, Ann spoke again. “Move—attack me—and he dies.”

Dean stood down automatically. He turned his head and found Ann standing. Found her staring at him with sickly yellow eyes. Shit.

The demon licked its lips and repeated, “If either of you so much as thinks about attacking, I’ll take Sammy with me.”

Seraphiel was still as stone, its face cautious, but Dean’s hands curled into fists. “You buh—buh—Touch him and I’ll kill you.”

As soon as he said it, he knew that he could do it. He could lay his hands on Ann’s body and burn the demon to nothingness while leaving her unharmed. Holy shit.

“I’m here to make a deal,” the demon announced.

Seraphiel glanced at Dean. “Do not bargain with—”

The demon darted forward and scuffed a line through the circle of petals. Seraphiel didn’t even have time to widen its eyes in alarm before it vanished. And Seraphiel may not be Dean’s favorite angel ever, but he’d called it here in the first place, which meant that he was responsible for it.

“If you hurt it, I’ll—”

“Relax, Dean. Seraphiel’s fine. On its way home to whine to Daddy.” The demon grinned. “Now, I believe we were making a deal.”

Dean’s jaw twitched. “I don’t think so. I think I can kill you before you do anything.”

“Better be sure,” the demon warned. The muscles in Sam’s neck corded as he threw his head back in a scream.

“Stop it!” Dean shouted. The word rolled through the room with a physical force: sent crack lines running through the floor. His breath caught in his throat, and his heart hammered wildly against his ribcage. Oh shit, had he done that?

“Careful,” the demon warned. “You haven’t quite gotten the hang of that yet. Might hurt someone you don’t intend to.” Its glance toward Sam left no question who it meant by that.

Dean grit his teeth together and didn’t say anything.

“Good boy. Now, about our deal: I’m willing to let Sammy ride off into the proverbial sunset.”

“In return for?”

“Your solemn oath to come with me. Not to harm me or mine for the space of six months, unless I grant you permission. To submit to whatever I want during that time.”

Sam’s eyes were wide and panicked, and Dean didn’t need the link between them to know that Sam wanted him to tell the demon to go fuck itself. Dean forced his eyes away from his brother: he couldn’t let Sam distract him right now.

“You want me to sign up for six months of torture,” he said flatly, and the demon shrugged.

“Whatever I want.”

Dean considered it. With that divine power rolling through him, the idea of pain didn’t seem too horrible. _What if it’s Azrael? What if it gives you to Azrael for six months?_ But even that thought caused no more than a mild tremor of anxiety, rolling through the calm that curled inside his skin.

And Dean sensed that the demon couldn't force him to do anything, not now. It couldn't touch the power inside of him. Which meant that he was the only one who would suffer from his consent.

He could live with that. _Sam_ could live with that. But it didn’t hurt to try for more.

“I’ll make the oath if you promise to leave him alone. Forever.”

The demon’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “I’m not giving up my claim on him. But I’ll tell you what: I promise I won’t force or coerce Sammy into anything he doesn’t want. If he comes to me of his own free will, though, I get to keep him.”

It wasn’t what he’d asked for, but it was better than nothing. And Dean wasn’t really in the position to drive a hard bargain here. Besides, Sammy wouldn’t ever give this son of a bitch the time of day, so it amounted to the same thing in the end.

“Do we have a deal?” the demon pressed.

Dean sighed. “Fuh—Fuh—yeah. Okay.”

The demon’s smile was so wide it was blinding, and for a moment, the deep serenity that filled him faltered uneasily. Why was the yellow-eyed bastard so pleased with itself? It could take its anger out on Dean all it wanted, but it had lost. He was off the market.

“You can say goodbye, if you want,” the demon offered magnanimously. Over by the wall, Sam collapsed to the floor. Knelt there dragging in deep breaths.

Dean ran over to his brother and pulled him to his feet. He was surprised by how little effort it took: more like lifting a paperclip than a six-foot-five giant. Sam raised his head and his eyes were red-rimmed. Tears were running down his cheeks.

A sharp pain lodged in Dean’s chest. “It’s only six months, dude,” he said quickly. “I’ll be fine. And when I get back we—”

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Sam interrupted him. His voice was low and choked and Dean wanted to punch himself for making his brother sound like that.

“Don’t, Sammy,” he urged. “It’s not your fau—”

Dean was still processing the fact that Sam was holding a gun in his hand— _where the hell did that come from?_ —when his little brother shot him in the heart.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Something funny must have happened to the whole time-space continuum thing because Sam had hours to marvel at how unimportant the shot had sounded. It should have been deafening. But instead there was only the same crack as always, slightly muffled because Sam had pressed the muzzle against Dean’s chest before pulling the trigger.

Sam watched his brother fall backwards from the blow, could feel Dean’s shock vibrating down the link between them. He watched Dean start to crumple, watched red seep through around the tiny, black-edged tear in the white linen robe, and choked on his brother’s despair and self-loathing. And underneath it all, an unwavering thrum of trust and devotion tore into Sam and stole any words he wanted to say.

Sam had just shot his brother—had fucking _killed_ him—and Dean was … was just accepting it, like he’d deserved it. Hell, Dean believed he _did_ deserve it, and Sam was frozen. Was torn between tossing that hateful gun across the room and shoving it in his mouth and pulling the trigger.

Dean fell and the demon was there to catch him. It used Ann’s body to pull Dean onto its lap, one arm slung around Dean’s chest and the opposite hand tangled in his hair. Dean was gasping for breath, his eyes locked on Sam. And the one small mercy in all of this was that Sam didn’t think his brother was even aware of the demon’s presence anymore.

Dean was sure as hell aware of the damned thing a second later, though, when the demon pressed its mouth against his ear and breathed, “Shhh,” on a smooth exhale. He tensed, and panic shot down the link for a shattering instant before his eyes slid shut and his body slumped loosely.

Sam reached down, meaning to pull his brother away from the demon—Dean wasn’t dying in that bastard’s arms, damn it—and its yellow eyes narrowed. Sam only knew he was flying through the air again when he hit the wall. Was still processing the impact when the demon used its power to shove him up along the wood paneling until his head was twisted awkwardly against the ceiling.

“No touching my property, Sammy,” the demon scolded. It ran one hand over Dean’s still face possessively.

“Can’t you even let him die in peace, you fucker!” Sam snarled. He knew he was crying because his vision was swimming, but he couldn’t feel the tears. He couldn’t feel anything but Dean. Alternating waves of misery and self-hate flooding into him through the link. Steady, unfaltering faith in Sam.

The demon smirked up at him as Sam’s brain finally caught up to the current events and he realized what was—or wasn’t—happening.

“Who said anything about Dean dying?” it asked.

“I shot him.” He had. Sam had been aiming for the heart and he knew that he hadn’t missed. It should have killed Dean, even if he’d gotten those regenerative abilities back.

“Poor, stupid Sammy. Always one step behind.” The demon shook its head in mock disappointment. Gripped the neck of Dean’s robe in both hands and ripped, spreading the cloth so that Sam could see his brother’s chest, bloody but whole. “You can’t kill an avatar. Not like that, anyway.” It chuckled.

“You knew,” Sam shouted. “You bastard! You _wanted_ me to shoot him!”

“You Winchesters are so predictable.” It dropped its head to look at Dean, and although Sam couldn’t see its face anymore, he knew it was smiling. “You think Dean’ll understand when he wakes up? You think he’ll know that you did it to save him? To save the world?”

Suddenly, Sam wanted to throw up so much it hurt. Because Dean wouldn’t understand, but he’d think he did. God, Sam knew exactly what Dean would assume: he could feel it running down the link right now, even though Dean was unconscious. That certainty that Sam was good and right, while Dean was something vile: something dirty and diseased that had to be killed before it caused any more suffering.

Sam made a small gagging noise and the demon glanced up at him again. “Don’t worry, Sammy. I’ll be sure to explain everything. Let Dean know how disgusted you are with him. How you realized he’s no better than a rabid dog that needed to be put down.” It had been stroking Dean’s cheek while it talked, and now Dean shifted uncomfortably in his sleep. “You think he’ll put up much of a fight when he realizes that you’ve given up on him?”

“You lying fuck!” _My fault. Oh God my fault._

“Game’s over, Sammy,” the demon announced. “Checkmate. I win.”

Sam swore at it, sobbing. Couldn’t come up with anything coherent to say.

The demon laughed. “You think about that offer I made you. You’ve got about six months to make up your mind.” Then it threw its head back and black smoke poured out of Ann’s mouth. The smoke slithered down across Dean, covering him. Sank through the floor and was gone, taking Dean with it.

A heartbeat later, the power holding Sam up by the ceiling evaporated and he fell. The floor knocked the breath from his lungs when he hit. He felt his nose break and heard a louder accompanying snap that meant that he’d just cracked his cheekbone.

Sam lay there, stunned by pain and shock, while Ann crawled over to check on him. He started to cry harder when he realized that he couldn’t feel his brother through the link anymore: that the place inside of him that he’d come to think of as _Dean_ was suddenly hollow and empty.

Six months. Six months of Dean letting that yellow-eyed bastard do whatever it wanted to him. Six months for Sam to make his decision.

It would be 2015, the year that his brother ended the world, in only four.


End file.
